A Hundred Moves
by Prim the amazing
Summary: A hundred Naruto drabbles, all ranging from light-hearted humour, sweet romance, gritty and realistic, and more. A fic that explores all the genres and multitudes of different situations and perspectives.
1. Alarmed

**Alarmed**

There was distant screaming and dull booms but Iruka was not alarmed. He may be six and where his house had been only moments before there was only smoking rubble and he didn't know where his parents where but he was not alarmed. His neighbors face was inches away from his own, smoke curling up and around her face like a frame for a picture. There was a big bloody wound on the left side of her forehead and in the middle of that wound Iruka thought he could see white. Her grey eyes were wide open and glazed over and she wasn't blinking, wasn't breathing, wasn't smiling at Iruka and giving him a piece of hard candy and asking him how his day at school had been and telling him to say hi to his parents from her. But Iruka was not alarmed.

He was dimly aware that he was lying on his side, was dimly aware that left arm felt numb, was dimly aware that only moments ago that the sky had been blue but now it was covered in dark ominous clouds and-

And then there was a loud animalistic roar that was somehow so terrifying, so utterly horrible, that Iruka just froze, just stopped breathing. His heart skipped a beat and he was overcome with fear. But then it was over and he could hear other sounds again, mainly his ears ringing and breath shuddering and heart jittering, but that was better than whatever the heck that had been.

Iruka focused on keeping not being alarmed. His neighbor, the nice old lady who always gave him some cookies when she made some, continued not breathing. People in the distant kept right on screaming.

Iruka was not alarmed. He was calm, composed, in control; the three C's to always remember in confusing and dangerous situations. Be Calm, be Composed, and be in Control.

Everything was going to be fine. That awful roaring was far, far away and wouldn't hurt him, oh no, wouldn't hurt him (it sounded big, it could probably get to where Iruka was in three gigantic footsteps, if Iruka raised his head and looked he would probably see the monster towering over Konoha, tearing it apart with ease and _remember the three C's), _Iruka was pretty sure he was safe. He was pretty sure everything was going to be fine. Before the day was over their house would be back up and Mrs. Suzuki wouldn't have that red and white wound and mommy and daddy would be back and smiling and (Iruka had never heard his parents scream, they were brave ninja, they didn't scream, but Iruka had seen one of daddy's friends running by earlier, a supposedly brave ninja like them, screaming his head off, not sparing a thought to the kid laying prone on the ground that he knew, and he didn't know what his parent's screams sounded like, that could be _them _screaming in the distance, his parents, brave ninjas, could be screaming, terrified out of their minds, and that shouldn't be possible, it shouldn't be, parents didn't scream or be afraid, it wasn't just that they were brave ninjas, they were _parents _and parents shouldn't _scream, _the mere thought was unbelievable, but then again in the wake of the horrifying indescribable roar of that thing every horrible little thing in the world seemed plausible, all the bad things were possible, monsters under the bed were real when that thing roared, in a universe where something like that existed so could screaming frightened parents and wasn't _that _an awful realization to have, especially for a six year old that didn't know what the fuck was going on in the first place) Iruka was not alarmed.

Throughout the whole thing Iruka did not once join the chorus of panicked screams, not once did he cry, and not once did he look up and see what was making that awful roaring sound. In a few months when things were getting back on track and Iruka's parents and Mrs. Suzuki were six feet under and pushing daisies, when Iruka was living in an orphanage and there was a new house where his had once been that looked nothing like the old one, when Iruka was back in school and Konoha could start caring about what sort of psychological impact this may have had on the children of Konoha, their future, six months later in other words, the class was visited by a therapist.

The therapists' name was Mr. Sato but he asked for them to all call him Tsubaki. Iruka had thought that was just a girls name but apparently boys could have it too and that was just fine. Iruka wasn't the sort of kid who picked people about their names. He might be a prankster and he might be the class clown and he might crave attention with an intense need that was a little frightening if you stepped back and looked (but no one ever did), but he was not a bully. He was never a bully.

Instead of having a normal school day they all instead read in their history books as Mr. Sato call-me-Tsubaki took out one of them at a time, each for a different time span, ranging from an hour or more to ten minutes or less. They had Ms. Watanabe that day (his mother used to call her an old spinster and then giggled impishly and told him not to tell anyone she said that but she couldn't giggle anymore now could she, what with her mouth full of dirt and worms, haha, there had been so many deaths that barely anyone had been allowed the luxury of a coffin so they had just taken his parents and dumped them in a hole but he should be grateful, most had just been burned in a big pile, most had not even been found, haha) and Ms. Watanabe was a grumpy woman who tolerated no speaking in her class unless a hand had been raised first, so no one got to know what the therapist talked about before it was their turn.

About halfway through it was Iruka's turn and he was directed to another empty classroom (there were a lot of empty classrooms now, a lot less kids than there had been before haha, it wasn't funny though, Iruka laughed a lot more than before but nothing was actually funny anymore) and he sat in a chair (the kid whose chair this used to be is dead now, he thought absentmindedly, he had a lot of those thoughts nowadays, he had them all day, all the time) across from a desk where Tsubaki sat (the teacher whose desk that used to be is dead now).

Tsubaki smiled gently and held up a clipboard.

"Iruka, right?"

"That's my name, don't wear it out!" Iruka said cheerfully.

Tsubaki chuckled (Iruka's father used to chuckle a lot, he was a happy man married to a woman who liked to tell jokes, not that she could tell a whole lot more jokes now, not that he could chuckle a whole lot more now, because, as he'd remarked upon inside his head before, dirt and worms, dirt and worms).

"A joker, I like that." He said and smiled (dirt and worms, dirt and worms)

"So, let's cut to the chase. I'm here to see who's a little more… affected by the Kyuubi attacks than the others. Both your parents died didn't they?" and now his tone was concerned and gentle, like he was walking on eggshells here. Iruka had noticed the red and puffy eyes of some of the students who came back after their talk. He probably expected Iruka to burst into tears at the mere mention of the word _parents. _

"Don't worry Tsubaki! I'm not gonna break and cry on ya." Iruka assured him with a big grin.

Tsubaki relaxed and nodded. He asked some more questions and in the end Iruka was in there for a total of five minutes, one of the shortest amounts of time spent there.

Later Tsubaki wrote a report on each of the students and what he thought of their mental state and whether or not they should have further therapy sessions.

This was what Iruka's report said:

_Will almost certainly not need further therapy. Seems to be taking the loss of his parents with good humor and behavior. When asked of what he felt during the attack he said _"I was not alarmed."

_A very mature way to handle a disaster for a six year old. _

_Iruka Umino: Mentally stable_

* * *

Thanks to A Tale of Brothers for helping me come up with a title name! So I tried to see how long I could hold out without having a fic to write. Turns out I managed to last a whole 24 hours. Wow. Haha, and I who had been looking forwards to some relaxation too! Ah, whatever. Anyway, please review!


	2. Dream

**Dream**

When Sasuke was four and got nightmares he would sleep with his parents. He remembers feeling very safe and loved sleeping between his parents, their warmth enclosing him, both of them holding his hands, the steady rhythm of their breathing very comforting. When he became six and his father deemed him too old to be babied he started sleeping with Itachi whenever he got a nightmare. Itachi would spoon him and rest his chin on the top of his head and murmur comfort until he was asleep. He remembers thinking that his brother's skin was always very cold, like ice, but not caring, because he loved his brother and his brother loved him as well. Or at least that was what he thought.

Now that Sasuke was eight and both his parents and his brother were gone he had more nightmares than ever. He dreamed of that night, he dreamt of Itachi throwing a kunai at the Uchiha fan symbol, he dreamt of Shisui's funeral, he dreamed of eyes as red as blood and _live an unsightly life Sasuke, cling to life and live. _

The worst dreams were the ones where Itachi just smiled at him like old times and poked him on the forehead and that was it. He often woke up screaming.

Whenever this happened he would grab his futon and drag it to the front of the door of Itachi's bedroom. He would stand in front of for ten minutes and think of ice cold skin, of how he had felt safe and loved despite his deep discomfort; he would remember murmured words of comfort and blood.

He'd wonder if Itachi had ever loved him. Surely he must have, he couldn't have faked the entire time they'd had together? He couldn't have faked Sasuke's entire life? Could he? He could. He was Uchiha Itachi. He was extraordinary. He was a genius. But even if he could Sasuke sincerely hoped that he hadn't. Why? He was monster. He should feel disgusted at the thought of ever being loved by a monster.

And then he'd wonder that if Itachi had ever loved him, when had he stopped? What had made him stop? Was it something he had done? Was it because he was not good enough? Was it because he was a failure as an Uchiha? Was it because he was a failure as a little brother? Was that it? Could the entire massacre have been avoided if Sasuke had just been a better ninja, a better Uchiha, a better little brother so that Itachi would never had had to stop loving him?

Itachi had seemed so sincere, so kind, so loving. It was like his big brother had died at the night of the massacre and had left behind a cruel stranger that looked like him in his place. But that wasn't true was it? He had seen the hatred growing between Itachi and the clan grow, the suspicion, the tension. He had seen it and he hadn't understood it and now his family was gone.

It was at this point of time that he would slowly walk away from Itachi's room, still plagued by what ifs, and he would walk down the hall and he would open the door to his parent's room now. It would be dusty and bare, the air stale and stuffy, and he would drag his futon inside the room. He would close the door. And there his parent's blood stain would be. A big dark unsightly stain where his parent's had fallen.

He would unroll his futon. He would get in bed. And then he would reach out his hand and place his flat palm down on his parent's blood stain as if he were holding their hands again through the veil of death and he would close his eyes and try not to think about blood red eyes and ice cold skin and murmured words and tension and funerals and he would fail.

And the worst was that no matter how much time passed the thought of those ice cold arms encircling him and those murmured words of comfort coming from a monster in the sheep's clothing of a loving brother would always make him feel safe and loved. With that feeling of safety and love would also always come a deep shame.


	3. Sakura

**Sakura**

When Sakura was out in sun for more than ten minutes a small, almost invisible spattering of freckles would appear across the bridge of her nose. Her mother thought it was just darling. Her father teased her mercilessly for it. She wasn't quite sure which was more annoying.

When she was very, very young, like, four years old, Sakura had wanted to be a ballerina dancer. Back when she was four she had liked her hair very much because it reminded her of bubblegum and cotton candy and roses and those things didn't annoy her at all back then. She hated them now. People who chewed bubblegum ought to be incinerated. Cotton candy was unhealthy and kind of hard to eat. She found the smell of roses slightly cloying, a little pungent, a bit too eye wateringly sweet for her tastes. But back when she was four she had liked bubblegum and cotton candy and roses and her hair and all else that was pink. She had wanted to be a ballerina.

She could only vaguely remember this, her former reasoning hazy and lacking in logic. She remembered wanting to be a ballerina because those ballerina outfits would look just _great_ with her hair and ballerinas were always so pretty and fluid. It was almost as if they had no bones in their bodies. They could twist and turn with ease. They could leap so high Sakura would gasp and they could even balance on the balls of their feet! Sakura used to try that out again and again at home but she never got it down.

Now of course Sakura doesn't want to be a ballerina. She is an adult. She hates all things pink (including her hair). For some reason pink not only reminded her of various pesky things such as bubblegum and roses but most strongly of all it reminded her of blood spilled on snow, diluted and weakened by the whiteness of it. Sakura hates blood and she hates the cold, in other words snow. She still likes the color red though, as inane as that is. Red doesn't remind her of blood or sickly sweet roses. Red reminds her of the hair ribbon Ino had given to her as a small shy girl.

For all she may huff and puff at Ino she would still always be for her that brave, smart, charming, pretty girl that she admired, respected and wanted to be when she was crushingly aware of her forehead and was frequently bullied by the other catty girls who sensed her weakness.

She will always treasure the time they had together before Sasuke inadvertently drove a wedge between them. True, they were friends again now, but it would never be the same as before. Though Sakura guessed that isn't all bad. Their former relationship, while closer, was not an equal one. Sakura had always been the underling while Ino had been the leader. It had just seemed right. Ino was confident and strong, Sakura was insecure and weak, in every sense of the word except for academically.

Sakura is not afraid of blood as her mentor was. She didn't like it nor enjoy it, but she could tolerate it. She was not only a ninja but a healer now. Healers were the kind of ninja that saw more blood than all the other put together, which really said something. She could handle having her arms inside some guy's gut, blood coating her arms up to her elbows. When blood was spilled, just like any decent ninja (not to badmouth her mentor or anything), she became cold and clinical, analytical. But that didn't mean she liked it, that didn't mean that she liked being reminded of it. And so Sakura disliked her hair.

When Sakura was five she gave up on the ballerina dream. It wasn't because she had acquired her hatred for pink yet or anything like that; it was that her peers were leaving her behind. Sakura had been about as good as Hinata was at the moment at socializing when she was five, which was not at all, so she had no friends. But despite the occasional bullying she wasn't outright hated (like some other blond orange clothed ninja she could mention) so she could occasionally play with other kids. But they never stayed and brought her under their wing.

Children are more aware than anyone, _anyone, _that it is a dog eats dog world out there. So they don't attach their name to someone who could drag them down, like Sakura for example. Sakura doesn't resent them for it, they were five after all, and she didn't resent them back then either, she had no spine after all.

So she was alone, but not completely alone. And then suddenly her not-quite-friends were leaving her, some for civilian school, but most of them for ninja school. Sakura went with the majority and went to ninja school. It was as simple as that. She abandoned a safe simple lifestyle, a cookie cutter home, a white picket fence and white-collar husband, two kids and a dog, for the majority. It was as simple as that.

And so Sakura abandoned that sleepy predictable normal life for kunais and blood merely out of peer pressure, and it was so that Sakura never became a ballerina. Sakura could easily leap twice as high as those ballerinas she'd used to gasp at now, could move with such fluid grace that they looked like clunky robots in comparison, she could even stand at the balls of her feet without even really paying attention. She could balance on the tip of her index finger as well now. But she didn't really care anymore. It wasn't so much as how impressive she was as how deadly she was, how evasive, how clever, how sly, how underhanded, how lethal. It was all about surviving now. No frills, no ballerina outfits, no glamour, just blood and grit and real life.

Sakura's favorite flower was the daffodil. She liked to think it wasn't as gaudy as a rose, not as infuriatingly posh and proper. She liked to think its smell wasn't as pungent and cloying and sickly sweet as a rose. She liked to think it was better than a rose. The real reason Sakura liked daffodils was because of Ino.

Sakura could remember Ino telling her once while they were flower picking at their sensei's order that the rose was her favorite flower. Sakura didn't dislike blood yet, so she just nodded starry-eyed and admired what a proper girl Ino was, how admirable it was that she liked roses. Only the best flower for the best girl. And without a doubt, if Ino liked roses best then roses were the best flower to ever exist.

But then Sasuke, then the wedge, and then Sakura was suddenly Ino's rival. Then, as Sakura was forced to look at Ino's wonderfulness from a more bitter perspective she grew a little hateful, a little jealous, felt a little bit inferior, maybe a lot. She came to hate roses. Maybe that was why she hated them, not because of blood but because of Ino.

Daffodils were far better in her book. They reminded her of the sun. They reminded her of Naruto. They made her think of smiles and happiness because that was just the kind of color yellow was. And in no way did the yellow petals even slightly remind her of Ino's beautiful blond hair that Sakura had, did, envy.

Sakura wished she was blond. Not because of Ino of course. Of course not.

Sakura had been a shy little girl who hoped she would grow up to be a ballerina and had idolized her only friend (superior). She was now a ninja, a healer, a grown woman who liked daffodils and hated roses and all that was pink. She was now more graceful than a ballerina ever could be and didn't even care. The only similarity between these two impossibly different girls was the fact that when they were out for more than ten minutes in the sun they got freckles.


	4. Beautiful

**Beautiful**

Ino prided herself on her beauty. She was graceful, she was pretty, and she was desirable. She was and she knew it and she enjoyed it. It was a major ego boost. She was always careful to only ever appear in public when properly dressed, showered, and groomed. She had a reputation to uphold after all, not that that was so hard to do what with her cute button nose and shiny long blond hair.

Some would say that with her cupid's-bow lips and almond shaped eyes that she resembled a romance heroine. They would be right. Ino really did resemble a romance heroine.

Ino wasn't exactly vain. She didn't judge other people by how they looked and always managed to see past the ugly covering hiding the amazing book underneath. She was friends with Chouji after all; she managed to be good friends with him just fine with only a minor amount of ribbing about him losing weight. She only meant it in alight-hearted sort of way and always made sure to stop before he started feeling bad about himself. He was her friend after all.

She was a Yamanaka, and Yamanaka's prided (much like how Ino prided herself on her beauty) themselves on their intelligence. They weren't coldly assessing like the Nara's, but every damn near one of them were experts at psychology. They saw the mind, not the body. And as did Ino, except for her own. She saw her body and cared for it, and she also knew how to appreciate a good view. She both the mind and the body and appreciated both of them but preferred the mind just as a good Yamanaka should. But Ino was her own harshest critic.

And Ino loved her sensei. She really did. He might smoke a lot and act like a dork around Kurenai but she thought he was the coolest sensei of them all. He was never late like Kakashi, from what she had heard, and he at least had good enough taste to not prance around in an unsightly green spandex, and he didn't fuck around with his students with genjutsu so they were always in doubt of what was real.

And Asuma-sensei liked her too. He liked both Chouji and Shikamaru as well. He was a good loving teacher. And he deserved to live. As cold and horrible as it might sound Ino knew of over two dozen people she'd rather have die than Asuma-sensei, and many of these people were good people, people she liked and who liked her, people with families and lovers. If Ino could trade one of these innocent peoples lives for that of her teachers she would do so in a heartbeat.

But she didn't get that choice so Asuma-sensei died.

When it happened she had cried. A few elegant tears had been shed and she had softly sobbed. She had resembled a beautiful weeping angel.

Shikamaru had avenged their teacher, of course. That went without saying. And they had a funeral, and Ino had looked like a mourning nymph. Weeks passed, months. And Ino remained beautiful, she remained calm. Just like a normal mourner she saw bits of Asuma-sensei seemingly everywhere. Shikamaru lighting up a cigarette, two old men playing shogi at a park, a nervous blushing man buying a bouquet of flowers for the apple of his eye. But she remained calm. She remained beautiful.

But then one day as she is heading out the door looking gorgeous and in control she casually looks at her nightstand and sees the picture of her team, of Asuma-sensei grinning happily at the camera, and for some reason that is the straw that breaks the camel's back.

Ino falls to her knees. And she cries.

But it is not the beautiful weeping of an angel, nor that of a mourning nymph. She doesn't resemble a romance heroine at all.

She throws her head back and screams piercingly, stricken with grief. If she had not soundproofed her room years ago ANBU surely would have burst into her room thinking she was being murdered. Her hands come up and they rove wildly through her shiny long blond hair, mussing it up and knocking it out of its neat ponytail. Her cupid's-bow lips grimace in a truly revolting expression of despair. Her almond shaped eyes quickly become bloodshot and shiny. Snot streamed from her cute button nose in two steady tears. She shut her eyes tight and howled.

Ino was ugly. And she was genuinely crying for the first time she could ever remember.

Really, she was lucky she hadn't had this breakdown in public or else people might think something was wrong with her. Plus it would have been embarrassing. It would have completely and utterly shattered her reputation, her carefully crafted image. Nobody would have ever thought of her the same way ever again. But right at the moment she couldn't give a flying fuck where she was. She didn't even remember she was in her own room. All she could do so was cry.

Asuma-sensei used to ruffle her hair and she used to _hate _that. She always made sure to take the time out of her day to brush each side of her hair one hundred strokes so it shone. And then when she did something good Asuma-sensei would grin at her happily and he would ruffle her hair, mess it up, and she would squawk unattractively and he would laugh.

When he would spar with her he would do for hours and time would fly away, Ino would not even notice the exhaustion creeping into her bones, or the mud and the dirt and the dust being kicked up everywhere attacking her clean clothes, and she wouldn't notice the twigs or the leaves tangling in her hair or the sweat coating her body in a disgusting sheen and she would pant like a dog and she would be having _fun! _


	5. Tenten

**Tenten**

Tenten's mother's soft brown eyes are shiny and she's blinking too much, too rapidly, and her face is pale and looks brittle and fragile, like the shell of a white egg. She sweeps Tenten up in a tight, tight hug. If Tenten wanted too she could bury her face in the crook of her mother's neck, the hollow alcove where neck and shoulder meet. And she wants to. She really does. But she resists. She has to appear strong in front of her mother, has to look like a calm grown up in front of her mother who looks like she might burst into tears at the drop of a hat at the moment. Tenten's mother is usually a very stern proud woman, she reminds her of Neji that way. Usually that comforts her but at the moment that is the worst possible thing to be reminded of. For the first time ever Tenten wishes she had never even heard the name Hyuuga Neji.

Tenten's mother smells like brown sugar and vanilla.

Tenten smells like metal, explosives, and dirt. She smells like death. She smells like Neji. She had been clutching him tight, tight as the dark red blotch on his neat white shirt had grown and grown larger and larger so, so fast, too fast, horribly fast, nightmarishly fast, and this couldn't be, where was Sakura? Where was Tsunade-hime? Where were the healers?

Tenten, sure in the knowledge that her mother can't see her face, grimaces in a horribly ugly pitiful way and fights back the stinging acidic tears. She had to be brave for her mother.

She bites her bottom lip until she can taste pennies and wishes she's learned the ways of the healing arts. Back when Tsunade-hime had been a Konoha ninja, before she went away, before she came back and became the Hokage, it had been mandatory for there to be at least one healer for each team. That was reasonable. That was rationale. Tenten's head pounded and she fiercely mentally screamed at her self for not learning the healing arts. If she respected Tsunade-hime so much then why didn't she try to become more like her? Why didn't she go ahead and become useful?

Lee had an actual excuse. He didn't even have working chakra coils. Neji had an actual excuse. He had been the one bleeding to death on the ground, white ethereal eyes she had always thought pretty misting over as his breaths came in shorter and sharper. What did Tenten have? Nothing, that was what. All she had was her weapons. Surely she had enough room in her repertoire to learn a little of the mystical healing palm jutsu off to the side? She did. She just hadn't bothered. Just hadn't had enough foresight to actually even contemplate the thought of Neji… of Neji…

Tenten's teeth broke skin and a small stream of blood trickled down her chin as her eyes shone like stars. Her hands, limp at her sides, were shaking badly.

Who could have possibly foreseen Neji dying? He was a prideful man, stubborn like a mule and trustworthy like a rock, an immovable foundation that would never budge, would never be moved, and would always be there. He had seemed eternal. Like God. Neji had been like God to her.

Silently, so as not to alarm her mother, so as not to alert her to the rawness of her grief, the tumbling turmoil like a sea during a storm, all frothing crashing waves of grief and shock and incomprehension and anger and fury and horrible, horrible guilt, silently she tilts her head towards the ceiling and silently screams, her eyes shut tight, tight so as to keep any tears from escaping, and her eyes and red and blotchy with emotion and her pulse is roaring in her ears like the crashing waves of emotion inside of her and she _hates._

She hates herself. She hates the cruel heartless man who killed Neji, she hates her kind teacher for never insisting on teaching her the healing arts, she hates Sakura for not being there, she hates her idol, her goal, her admiration, her Tsunade-hime for not being there as well. She hates them all, herself included, but the one she hates most of all is Neji. How dare he leave her? How dare he not be faster, dodge a split second sooner? She knew that kunai had been thrown faster than light, she knew it had been impossible to dodge, knew that leaving her had been the last of his intentions, knew that he would have given anything to live and dodge and stay with her, had seen the horror and despair and guilt wash over his face as that awful, awful dark red blotch grew and grew, larger and larger so, so fast, too fast, horribly fast, nightmarishly fast.

But she still hates him. She still hates him more than anyone else in the world. She hates him more than anyone has ever hated him and more than anyone could hate another human being. Somehow, she manages it. She hates him.

But the worst thing of all is that she still loves him. She loves him so, so much.

Maybe it's because his blood is still coating her shaking hands, red, slick and wet and lukewarm still.

* * *

Fifth chapter and still no reviews. Fuck.


	6. Hound

**Hound**

The waves lap gently at the boat, making it rock, and the crew shuffle about and languidly do their job, reeking of ale and tobacco. Kakashi stands by the railing of the ship and looks at the sun rising, the sky bleeding pink and orange like a picturesque painting. The breeze is salty and fresh and seagulls cry in the distance. The surface of the water sparkles like liquid diamonds and there is a mirror reflection of the rising sun that is till half hidden behind the horizon.

Kakashi grips the railing so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He tries not to think about the mission he just completed. He tries hard.

As usual, he fails. Because that's just what he is. A failure. His entire goddamn life is just one big fuck-up. One mistake after another.

His head throbs.

He thinks of Rin, tied up and captive. He thinks of Obito, half crushed under an unmovable boulder, bleeding and dying and _take my eye, Kakashi. _He thinks of the blue luminance crackling in his hand as he plunges it through Rin's chest and her widened eyes and her dying breath and he thinks of every single thing he has done wrong in his life. It is a depressingly long list.

Kakashi thinks about the mission.

It was an S-class, so hush-hush that not even an ANBU in service could do it. Kakashi wasn't an ANBU in service. He got the dirty work. It happened more often than he'd like to admit. But he always accepted because some part of him still believed he deserved it for what he did and that was actually true. He did deserve it. He got Obito killed. He literally killed Rin. He killed his team. What kind of person does that? A man who deserves to suffer for the rest of his life, that's who. So Kakashi accepted the mission, no questions asked.

He had been told to kill a guy, nothing special there. Like he hadn't killed a thousand men before him. His name was Dan Itou, Rock-nin, Chunin, father of three and caring husband. There was nothing about him that stood out. Not even his looks. He had been a plain, unassuming man. Too plain. Too normal. Why would Konoha hire one of its best to kill such an unimportant man? Because that was just a façade, obviously.

Kakashi had played it safe and poisoned his food, made it look like a heart attack.

There was nothing too bad about that. The man had not suffered, and had appeared to be too much of a nice guy to be real. He must have done something awful in his past, something shady. He must have been dangerous. Except there was no way to know that. That was what was bugging him. There was now way for Kakashi to know whether or not he should be guilty about this man's death and his imagination was more than happy to present the man as an unfortunate victim by playing up the scenarios in his favor.

It had been discovered that Itou was the lovechild of an extinct bloodline, and not even he knew, but Konoha did. Itou had been the close friend of some ninja that had found about some Konoha secret who had died and Konoha, paranoid and distrusting as ever, had feared that Itou had been told the secret before his friend was assassinated, even though there was a shot that he hadn't been told a word. Some noble had a vendetta against him for some petty reason and Konoha wanted that noble's support and money, so they had gotten Itou killed as a favor, a gift to get into the noble's good graces.

The speculations went on and on, painting Itou as an innocent victim and the guilt and uncertainty ate away at him.

But if there was anything Kakashi was used to it was guilt and uncertainty. This wasn't the first time Konoha had had him kill a man he knew nothing about. He was Konoha's soldier, Konoha's tool, Konoha's servant, its protector, assassin, defender, he was Konoha's shinobi and he would serve it to his death. Because without Konoha as his solid pillar that what could he rely upon? What was sacred? What was holy?

If he did not follow Konoha with blind obedience as he had done for as long as he could remember he would go mad. He had held a kunai since the age of two and couldn't even remember his first kill. He had worn a mask of cloth before he'd gotten of the bottle and had started wearing one of porcelain before his voice had cracked.

He will go back to Konoha, and he will give the Hokage an oral report because this will never be put down on paper, and he will keep on taking missions. Uncertainty or no, Dan Itou will definitely not to be his last kill. Not by a long-shot.

He may have resigned years ago but he will never truly stop being Konoha's Hound.


	7. Soulless

**Soulless**

Pretty, wide brown (glass) eyes slid over to where he was sitting seamlessly, without a single stutter of movement. Deidara suppressed his twitch and focused on his sculpture, a small simple bird, he liked making those. His fingers smoothed out the edges of one of the wings and when out of the corner of his eye he saw a sudden shock of blood red glide over to him (no creak of wooden joints, not even the footsteps that were expected of a regular human being, just silence) he couldn't stop a little jerk before it was too late and one of his nails scraped up the blank even surface of the clay sculptures beak. What was worse was that he was certain that Master Sasori had noticed, he could tell by the chuckle that slipped through the bastards perfect (fake) lips. The chuckle didn't sound amused, nor did it sound patronizing, or sadistic. It was a blank sound; no emotion involved what so ever. It was a little like a sound made by a machine, something lifeless and meaningless with no context, even if it sounded just like a normal chuckle it was just somehow _wrong. _

Deidara scowled down at the little clay bird he held in his hands and smoothed out the beak and only when he was done did he acknowledge his partner that was now sitting next to him on the bench. They were at the hideout, waiting for Pein-Sama to stop staring pensively off into the distance while it rained like some philosophical asshole so that he could give them another mission to do. Sasori was currently out of Hiruko for some unfathomable reason, the ugly puppet sitting crouched in the corner of the room, limbs and jaw slack, hatch wide open for all to see what it truly was. Not a human.

"What is it, Master Sasori?" he asked respectfully, yet his face was a mask of impatience and provocation to cover up his uneasy nervousness, how tense he was, how on edge.

The puppet looked up at him, his movements so smooth and controlled, unnatural, not normal, not meant to be. The flawless face stared up at him silently. Deidara wished he would at least blink, shift his center of balance, or tuck a few locks of hair behind his ear absentmindedly as if he didn't even notice that he was doing it, some sort of movement that wasn't conscious, at least pretend to breathe for _God's sake! _He knew Master Sasori didn't really have to breathe to survive but was it too much to ask for that he at least humored him a bit? That he made his chest rise up and down a bit? Was that too much trouble?

Those dead lips twisted and moved until they resembled something you could call a smug, arrogant smirk. The smirk looked just like the real thing, the transformation from stoic to superior having been as smooth and seamless as a river, yet it reminded Deidara uncomfortably of a squirming snake in its final death throes and he scowled extra hard to hide how truly disturbed he was.

Master Sasori's eyes locked with his – those eyes. Those eyes, Deidara wished his partner would blink, would have found some way to make them shine with simulated life instead of a new sheen of fresh polish, heck! He would have even settled for having those two brown disks looking like the glazed over eyes of a corpse, if only it looked like something humanoid, something that could be found out there in nature. But instead the eyes were just mere fabrication, a mocking resemblance that was so dead on that it was frightening because no matter how meticulously Master Sasori would apply each and every blood red eyelash, no matter how carefully he painted the cornea, shined the iris, made sure the sclera was perfect Deidara would always be able to see how utterly _wrong _those eyes were, how fake, how they were even worse than the eyes of death.

Master Sasori was leaning a little bit too close for comfort but Deidara wasn't going to ahead and blurt that out like some kind of idiot. So what did he care if Master Sasori didn't give a damn about personal space, his specifically? It wasn't as if he were touching him. Deidara barely managed to stop the shudder in time at the thought of those wooden, fake fingers touching him. Ugh! The mere thought gave him the chills. No matter. Master Sasori was breaching his personal space, so what? It didn't matter as long as he didn't (God forbid) touch him. Deidara wasn't sure he would be able to maintain a calm façade if his partner did that.

"Just thinking," was his answer.

He didn't pull away, or look away, or start to pretend to breathe so that Deidara could actually do so. At that he realized that he was holding his breath and he felt like hitting himself. He didn't, though he did start breathing again.

Master Sasori's voice, it was the voice of a teenager all right, yet it wasn't. Just like his eyes Deidara could sense something wrong about it, something deader than dead. It always took him a split second longer than what should be normal to realize what Master Sasori had said than when it came to other human beings, it just took longer to process, though no one seemed to notice. It was like his chuckle, like the scrape of a chair, a door creaking, glass shattering. It wasn't a live sound, not something something sentient should be able to emit.

After about five minutes of an uncomfortable staring match that Deidara was doomed to lose since the start he decided that he couldn't take it anymore and just went ahead and took the plunge.

"Thinking about what?" Good. His voice didn't waver or break, it was normal, casual, and only mildly curious. Good.

Master Sasori tilted his head, but the image of a cute confused puppy didn't spring to mind, instead a freshly killed man being hoisted by his collar into the air, his neck snapped and his head at a horribly gruesome angle was what Deidara saw in his mind's eye. He bit his tongue and continued looking casual and unperturbed.

"Did you know that when you sleep you recoil from my touch?"

Again, that extra split second needed to process those smooth syllables that his subconscious refused to admit were actual words spoken by an actual living creature. Well. In a way his subconscious was right. Horribly, frightfully right.

"What?" Deidara asked blankly.

"It's true. And when I reach out and touch you anyway, no matter how much you try to avoid me in your sleep by uselessly squirming, you start whimpering. It really is rather cute, pathetically so."

He watched those lips move, form the correct shapes, he listened to the noises emitting from this non-breathing creature, noises normal human beings made every single day, and yet he had to actively concentrate to understand what had been said, just as usual when it came to Master Sasori. When the meaning of the words broke through he felt uncertain of whether or not he'd gotten it right, though some part of him that was silently screaming in horror already knew that he'd gotten each and every word right.

"…You watch me sleep? You touch me when I sleep?" he asked in a blank voice.

Master Sasori nodded.

His mouth had never felt drier, his heart never louder, and the silence never heavier.

"Why?" he asked after a considerable amount of time that would have given his partner a chance to explain himself, elaborate, make clear that he was just misunderstanding something, maybe even tell him that he was just joking. He couldn't help his voice rasping on the question as if someone had stuffed a fistful of gravel down his throat.

Master Sasori did a smooth roll of the shoulders, a movement that most would classify as a shrug, though Deidara wasn't most people. Every movement, every sound, every look from his redheaded partner was like some sort of alien miracle that made adrenaline and fear course through his veins.

"Well, you know how it is." Deidara didn't. "I'm immortal, ageless; an eternity is at my hands. Despite the fact that I'm usually quite impatient I've got nothing on my hands but time. I never sleep, never eat, and never have to waste my time with useless endeavors that humans have to. Even if I have an entire army of puppets to fix and tune up and add to and polish and care for and practice and train with I always eventually run out of things to do for some time. Might as well spend that time watching a pretty, clueless blond squirm instead of paint drying."

He stared down at his partner, his partner who freely admitted to not being a human, his partner who didn't need to sleep, to eat, to waste his time with useless endeavors humans had to. His partner, who didn't breathe, didn't blink, never made any unwanted sound or movement, and was constantly conscious of every inch of his "body." He stared down at this heap of wood that was held together by lead hinges and chakra threads, this mockery of human beings, this _thing _that was deader than a corpse. The thought that this thing regularly touched him every night, caressed his cheek, twirled his golden hair between his fingers, the thought made him sick, made him feel like the skin where he imagined the feather light touches shrivel up and go gray, made him feel dizzy and downright scared as his breath caught in his throat.

Another burst of noise. He absentmindedly processed it as another chuckle. That didn't matter though, there were white spots bursting forth in his vision.

"It's funny." Master Sasori said, lifting a hand to cup his left cheek.

Deidara was too stunned by the recent revelation to shrink away from the touch.

"It's funny." Master Sasori repeated. "Now that you're awake and _really _scared you're not squirming much at all. Though it's still somehow cute, pathetically so."

Deidara looked down at his partner, down at those deader that dead eyes, and he wondered dazedly if what was so inherently wrong about the bastard was not the fact that he was made out of wood, that he watched and touched him when he slept, that he never breathed and never blinked, but rather that he didn't have a soul. The thought was frighteningly plausible.


	8. Bastard

**Bastard**

Dark eyes flash irately and for a moment Naruto thinks, excitedly, that Sasuke will punch him. But just as his muscles tense as if he's about to lunge at him he forces his eyes shut and Naruto realizes with disappointment that Sasuke is counting to ten inside his head. Another failed attempt.

He didn't even call him a dobe.

Naruto rakes a hand roughly through his short blond hair and huffs with frustration. He wishes Sasuke would sock him one.

Suddenly a small pile of branches fall down on the campfire separating them and Naruto looks up to see Sakura, hair looking almost orange in the dancing firelight.

"I'll go and fill up our water bottles in the river. Remember, it'll be your turn to do the chores tomorrow, Naruto." She said and turned around.

"Not unless we complete the mission before then!" he calls after and she shakes her head dismissively. She doubts him. Naruto will show her. He always does.

They're alone again, Kakashi being out hunting for food, most likely just slacking off and reading in his pervy book, and Naruto looks across the crackling campfire at Sasuke. Sasuke snaps his eyes open, having counted down to ten, and Naruto wonders at the way the fire is reflected perfectly in his dark eyes, like mirrors.

"What are you looking at?" Sasuke grumped and Naruto grinned.

He briefly contemplates going with the truth and answering _'Your eyes,' _but he probably shouldn't. A comment like that would just weird Sasuke out instead of convincing him of punching him, kicking him, yelling and insulting him and getting into fight with him. Naruto wants to get under his skin.

"A bastard," he says, and almost winces at the hope in his voice. If Sasuke is alerted of what he is going for he'll never do it. But Sasuke doesn't notice.

He just rolls his eyes in over exaggerated disgusted way and _hnn's _at him. The bastard.

He wishes that Sasuke would just attack him already. He wishes he would acknowledge him as someone worthy to get worked up over, someone worthy to get hot under the collar over, someone that he can get into a fight in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night with without giving a damn, thinking that it was worth it.

_Acknowledge me, _a part of him whines inside his head. It is a familiar mantra. _Look at me, talk to me, touch me. I don't care if the looks are glares or if the talking is shouting or if the touches are punches. Give me attention. _

Sasuke isn't looking at him. He might as well not exist in his universe. The thought stings and he sets his jaw.

"Oi bastard," he says, not even knowing what he is going to say.

The bastard in question doesn't looks at him, doesn't ask '_What?' _He just twitches a bit in reply, as if lightly shaking off a bug. Because that was all he was to Sasuke wasn't it? A bug.

"If you beat me in a fight I'll do your chore night in addition to mine."

Finally, _finally, _he looks at him, dark reflective eyes gliding fluidly over to him and Naruto struggles not to let his smile force his eyes shut. Sasuke acknowledging him is a sight worth savoring.

"But if I beat you," he says, "you'll have to do _my _chores."

Sasuke rolls his eyes again and snorts.

"It wouldn't be fair," he says, his voice like oiled silk, low and subdued as if to not break the night's tentative silence. It's very unlike Naruto's voice, loud and attention-grabbing, piercing the night like a shrill whistle. "I'd crush you, no problem."

Naruto visibly bristles and Sasuke chuckles. For some reason Sasuke's voice reminds him of dark chocolate, warm and delicious and melting. It an odd thought because Naruto had always been more of a white chocolate guy himself.

"Bastard," he growls, "I'd totally beat you! I'd overwhelm you with my Shadow Clones."

"Quality over quantity, dobe. I'd just activate my Sharingan and take out all the Clones you could throw at me with single precise strikes until I found the real you and beat you to a pulp."

The thought of Sasuke taking the time to beat him to a pulp shouldn't be so uplifting, Naruto knows. But he just can't help it.

"You know I have practically endless chakra! I'd exhaust you before you could find the real me."

"Can you even fight without your Shadow Clone jutsu? Is that the only jutsu besides the three basics that you know? And Oiroke no Jutsu does _not _count."

Naruto bristles again, because it is true. So what? Why should he need to learn a bunch of jutsus if what he already has works just fine? And he's always hassling Kakashi to teach him some cool new jutsus so it's not as if he isn't trying! Sasuke should know that, he is always loudly whining right next to his ear. _But he doesn't, _a voice whispers, _he doesn't notice and he doesn't care because you are nothing to him and even this attention is only temporary, fleeting. To him you are not and never will be worthy. _

Naruto growls at the voice to shut the hell up. It doubts him. He'll show it. He always does.

"I'll have you know that that jutus took down the _Hokage._"

"Only because he's a dirty old man,"

Naruto, surprised at the fact that Sasuke had just said something that vaguely sounded like a joke, snorted. Sasuke chuckled with him and it was rich and velvety and made his ears feel tingly.

Naruto feel elated now, can feel the former gloom lifting from his shoulders because Sasuke _is talking to him. _His goal had been to make him shout, to make him hit and snarl, because what more but anger could he ever hope for with Sasuke? But now, somehow, he has done the impossible and has drawn Sasuke into a somewhat pleasant conversation.

_It's almost as if we're friends, _the voice, now amazed, whispers. Naruto feels smug. He shows it. He always does. _We are friends, _he tells it, _we're _best_ friends. _

Naruto should have known that his best friend would be a bastard.

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	9. Perfect

Warning: KakaIru on the horizon!

**Perfect**

Her skin was exposed to his eyes and hands and was the color of smooth ivory (tan and modest), her lips blood red and full (luscious, unpainted and utterly kissable), her eyes dark and wanting (sweet and warm). Her hair was cut at the nape of her neck, bleached blond, the touch of it crisp and somehow fake (longish brown, looking oh so soft). Kakashi growled underneath his breath and the woman whose name he didn't remember anymore, hadn't ever bothered even learning in the first place, shuddered with excitement, mistaking his frustration for carnal want.

He was normally gentle in bed, loving, careful. Know, he grabbed her by her short hair and roughly kissed her. It didn't matter. She seemed to like it.

Why was he even here in the first place? To prove something. To himself. And he was failing.

He bit down harshly on the slope of her neck where it morphed into her shoulder and she moaned loudly. He concentrated as well as he could on that and he put all thought of Chunin's, of teachers, of men, right out of his mind. Such thoughts were not appropriate for the bed when there was a guest in it.

As he took her he looked down on her face, sweaty with pleasure and desire, and he couldn't help but wish that she had a scar running over the bridge of her nose.

XXX

He was smiling. Not Kakashi. He hadn't smiled for awhile actually. Iruka was. It was Iruka who was smiling.

He peered at the Academy teacher as he leaned down to help a child solve some sort of problem in his textbook, and all of a sudden an expression of understanding lighted the child's face and a smile bloomed on Iruka's face, somehow more beautiful than the last time he had seen it, kind and happy for someone who wasn't him, selfless and helpful.

Kakashi bit down on his bottom lip and hated himself. What was he doing here, squatting in a tree and spying on some hapless man at his job like some kind of stalker!? He wasn't a creep. He didn't want to root through Iruka's trash or watch him sleep (though now that the thought occurred to him the image of Iruka fast asleep, unknowing and resting, face relaxed and breathing steady- no. _No_). He shouldn't be here. What he was doing was disgusting; it was wrong, revolting, just awful. He was getting obsessed and he knew it, he couldn't even bring himself to stay away anymore.

After another hour Kakashi finally managed to wrench himself away from his hiding place and spent three hours staring blankly at his book, making his students wait impatiently, as he wondered when the hell he had started addressing Iruka by his first name in his head.

XXX

Nara Shikaku wasn't the only man in town with an unfortunate, unwilling liking for hot-tempered partners. Kakashi would be more than happy to be in love with some demure woman, patient and shy. More than happy.

But Kakashi didn't get to choose who he liked. So he got Umino Iruka. Now, Iruka was a kind man, selfless, caring, hardworking, sweet, _utterly perfect. _Wow. Kakashi had to stop doing that. Obsessing over Iruka. It wasn't healthy. But Iruka was a man. But Kakashi guessed that he could have handled being in love with anyone who wasn't Iruka, even if it was a man. But it was Iruka. Iruka, who he had argued with, put down, obsessed over for the past few months. It was Iruka, who was perfect. So very out of his league.

He was Hatake Kakashi (the only)! The chronically late (except for maybe in bed, he always came right on time in those circumstances, bow-chicka-BOW-WOW! And Jesus Christ he was a dirty old man already)! The porn obsessed (though not as obsessed as he was of Iruka, which kind of scary when you thought about it)! The guy who didn't even show his face in public (for… reasons. Okay so maybe it was just funny to watch people speculate and execute pitiful attempts to rid him of it)! He could have buck teeth for all Iruka knew (actually he had perfectly nice pearly whites, given to him by a long childhood of uncomfortable braces, he had sure been grateful for the mask back then). He could have warts (smooth as a baby's ass). He could have a weird nose (just fine, thank you). He had the tendency to act like a fool on occasion (this was very true).

But. The problem. Iruka was as untouchable as the stars in the sky for him. They weren't on the best of terms. And Iruka was, as mentioned before, sweet. And innocent. And just all around perfect. Meanwhile Kakashi was… Kakashi. Could he really be so selfish as to actually reach out and soil what Iruka had. Iruka was a great potential boyfriend (maybe even husband…). He was sure to get a more deserving suitor sooner or later. Someone better than Kakashi.

This wasn't fair! Kakashi didn't even like men in the first place! He liked women! Always had! Always would! Except Iruka threw a pretty good wrench into those plans. Kakashi should have realized on first sight that Iruka was a man so amazing and perfect that his amazingness and perfectness transcended mere gender. Kakashi didn't give a damn what Iruka was, just that he was perfect. All other whining, despite whatever he claimed, was just that. Whining. Excuses.

He was doomed.

XXX

Kakashi glared intently at the back in front of him. The shinobi sensed the murderous glare and shuffled nervously, cold sweat running down the back of his neck. Kakashi had nothing against this man. He didn't even know him. Didn't even know him by _sight. _They had nothing whatsoever to do with each other.

The guy at the front of the line got finished and walked off and the poor shinobi in front of him was forced to shuffle a few steps closer to the front of the line. Kakashi's glare doubled in strength and the unfortunate man whimpered pitifully.

Why was he doing this to himself? There were other lines he could take? _Shorter_ lines! _Faster _lines! Lines that _didn't have Iruka waiting with a smile for him at the end!_

Kakashi's head throbbed and he cursed his inability to stay the hell away from the Chunin. Which was nonexistent. He now knew Iruka's entire work schedule by heart and knew which spots in the trees had the best angle to see him lecturing. He was pathetic. So very, very pathetic.

"Next," Iruka chirped in his perfect voice and the shinobi in front of him who looked about ready to piss his pants hurried over and handed in his report.

Kakashi seethed.

He was mad- mad at himself for giving in like this, for going out of his way to have contact with Iruka, for not walking away, for being so mad in the first place. He was Hatake Kakashi, Copy-Nin, infamous, notorious, Jounin, damn near unstoppable. And he couldn't even control his emotions.

"Next," Iruka said and the shaking man literally just tore off, running as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Must have been in a hurry to get somewhere," Iruka mumbled to himself, watching the shinobi burst out of the building with the speed only a man who feared for his life could accomplish.

Kakashi's heart melted at the innocent mistaken statement and he promptly forgot all of his anger, instead just smiling sappily at the man before him. Thank god for the mask. Thank god.

Iruka turned back to him and smiled politely. "Hatake-san," he nodded and Kakashi's melting heart broke a little from the use of his last name.

"Umino-san," he replied because he wasn't on a first name basis with the man, it wasn't his place to just go around calling him by his name as if they were friends (lovers). That just wouldn't do.

He handed his report over to Iruka and he examined it and nodded satisfactorily.

"Everything seems to be in order. Thank you for your cooperation, Hatake-san. Goodbye. I hope to see you again soon."

"And me you," Kakashi answered. He knew that Iruka said that to all of the shinobi but his heart was mended and back to melting into a liquid puddle inside his chest at the words. He hoped he wasn't being too corny or obvious.

Iruka graced him with a little wave and the knowledge that Iruka hadn't done that for the other guy he smiled widely and waved back before walking off, humming under his breathe.

"He seemed awfully cheery." Iruka noted with amusement as he watched the Copy-Nin walk out the door. And then he turned back to the next man in line. He had work to do.

XXX

Kakashi hadn't been in bed with anyone since the woman with the bleached hair. And now he was in a bar, sake cup in hand, a light buzz fogging over his thoughts, and a woman with bazongaas the size of watermelons and the face of a supermodel was practically draping herself over Kakashi, reeking of sake and want. Kakashi hadn't had sex in two months. And if it wasn't with Iruka, nor did he want to.

"Come oooon," she whined petulantly, practically grinding against him in full view of the patrons, the bartender, god, and anyone else who wanted a peek. Kakashi was not amused.

"No," he told her firmly for at least the third time.

"What, are you, like, in a relationship or something?" she asked, her speech slurred and breath reeking to high heaven.

"I guess you could say that," Kakashi lied. Somewhat. Even if he had nothing going on sleeping with this woman would feel like cheating. He knew this because for the weeks after his lay with the bleached woman he had been plagued by an insistent irrational guilt.

"Awwww, no fuuun! C'mon, let loose a bit. You can have fun with _me. _I can act like her if you want. I'll moan your name like she does if you want. She'll never know. It'll be our secret." She giggled drunkenly.

"No," Kakashi repeated and gently pushed her off of him. She staggered, then glared. She was off by a few feet but Kakashi didn't bother saying anything.

"Fuck you," she swayed. "You're just some queer anyways."

Unnoticed by anyone in the bar Kakashi nodded in agreement and sipped at his sake. If he had his way he'd never have sex again in his life unless the body underneath him was male, was tan, was fit, was perfect.

It was too late for him now. He was completely and irrevocably in love with Umino Iruka.

Luckily for him the man in question was just around then starting to notice things about him, how his mask stretched when he smiled, how his eye shone when he was amused, how his laugh was rich and voice pleasing to the ear. Before the week was over Umino Iruka would declared himself doomed and sulk for a bit about how far he was out of his league.

They'd figure it out soon enough.

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	10. Fragile

**Fragile**

Hinata always smiles softly. Neji is thankful for this for he is afraid that if she dares smile too widely, too broadly, that she will crack. He fears that her face will fall to pieces, that her skin will peel and flutter gently to the ground like pale feathers from a graceful molting bird.

When she speaks it is in a near whisper that one has to strain to hear, and Neji is grateful for this as well. He dreads that if she were to scream, to shriek, to yell, shout, bellow, even speak a little loudly, that she will shatter into a million pieces, like a glass shattering due to being hit by a too loud note, shrill like a whistle, destroying it, her.

Hinata is fragile. Well, not really actually. She can take a hit and shrug it off. She can deal blows of her own. She may not be loudly stubborn like her teammate Inuzuka Kiba, or silently intimidating like the other one, Aburame Shino, but she has a certain gentle disposition all her own. She is strong. Neji knows this, but he can't help thinking of her as something fragile, something delicate that must be handled with careful hands and soothing words.

Maybe it is her pale Hyuuga skin, a creamy pallor that makes her skin almost look like rice paper, so easy to tear. Or maybe it is her shy stutter, her quiet uncertain voice, as if she is afraid that if she were to speak too loudly the world will strike against her and that will crush her. Or maybe it is her small dainty hands, just made to master the Gentle Fist, with her breakable wrist and long elegant fingers. Maybe it is in her brittle smile.

He does not view her as weak, per say. Not anymore. But she is to be treasured, taken care of, pampered and protected. She can kill a man with a feather light touch, just like how the Hyuuga Heiress should be able to. Despite first appearances, disappointed father, disapproving relatives, bowed head and an eagerness to please, Hinata had truly gone up and beyond what the Heiress should be capable of. She was strong, empathetic, kind, intelligent, and charismatic, no matter what anyone said.

But Neji still can't help but think of her as fragile. He is afraid that a strong wind could break in her half like a hollow dry twig. She is precious, too precious for this world, and he had to make sure she was never wrenched away from him unfairly before her time. She had to live, to prosper, to rule the Hyuuga clan not with an iron fist as her father did, as his uncle did, but with the Gentle Fist they were renown for. She would lead them with a soft, guiding hand to a greater future.

Neji had no doubts that under her leadership the Hyuuga's would rein at the height of their power. She would take away the Caged Bird seal that had haunted them for centuries, she would be a strong voice in the Council, would control the ambitious Elders who vied for power that was not be theirs, she would fight for them and more, she would fight for Konoha just as a true kunoichi should.

She was not fragile, and Neji knew this, but he would never stop thinking her of as so. Because she was too important too handle roughly, because if she were to break it would be a tragedy.

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	11. Prison

**Prison**

Mizuki has not seen the sky for years, but he is as certain that it is blue as he is that the door will never open.

He had her rumors of the Inescapable Prison, horror stories, things meant to frighten companions when whispered to each other in the dead of the night, huddled around a campfire as a bottle of sake is passed around, eyes wide and disbelieving, yet reluctantly spooked.

"_It's not true is it? You're lying, right?"_

Hushed questions seeking comfort and smiles, assurance that such a place does not exist. Assurances that never come. It is far too fun watching them squirm. That is a trait humanity has had since the dawn of day. The pleasure of watching other people squirm.

They slide his meals to him through a small narrow space on the bottom of the thick steel door, locked and covered in seals, no doorknob on his side. The meals come twice a day and taste like cardboard, bland and boring. It is a colorless slop in a bowl that Mizuki can't even identify.

The door never opens.

There is a metal toilet in the corner of the room and once a week the dozen knobs on the walls spray disinfectant at him, his shower.

The door is always closed.

His hair is very long now, longer than it ever has been, longer than his mother's had been. He dimly remembers her, tall and beautiful, white hair always shimmering as if moonlight was shining off of it falling past her waist. He remembers stroking it once as she slept on the couch and thinking it felt like an angels feathers. She died when he was six along with his father. She died screaming.

But unlike his mother his hair is not soft or silky. It is matt and stringy, thanks to not having seen real soap since his imprisonment. _Make sure to never drop the soap in the Inescapable Prison, _his friends has used to tell him jokingly, chuckling. Nowadays he would throw his head back and laugh and laugh ask out loud, alone in his quiet cell, "_What _soap? What soap!?"

His green eyes will often stare at the locked door for hours for a day and he can feel the hours of his life leeching away, wasting away, the sand corns steadily pouring down the time glass of his life span, and he will morosely, bitterly, think about unfairness, of injustice, of how he had done what he had done only to rid the world of another Demon, of a blight on the existence of humanity. He had only meant to purge.

Mizuki cries a lot these days. He cries a lot.

Time passes. His bitterness grows along with his hair. He never takes his leaking green eyes off of the door. He becomes obsessed. He can't stop thinking about him. The brat. The insolent _Demon _brat. Mizuki swore that if he ever got out of there he'd kill him, flay him, burn him, make him _scream, _make him feel all of the loneliness he had felt since the day his parents were killed by him, since the day they had chucked him into this godforsaken cell to rot.

It comes to a point where Mizuki starts to doubt that the sky is really blue. He becomes uncertain of what color the sky that had always hung over his head since the day he was born his entire life was. Was it truly blue? Or had it been gray. That hopeless bland color seemed much more fitting for such an unfair world. The mere thought that the sky was blue, as the Demon brats eyes, became a sickening thought and he came to hope with all his heart that it was gray. Or maybe it was orange. An infuriating thought. Or maybe it was red. Like blood.

Mizuki forgot the color of the sky but he never once doubted that the door would never open again.

But one day it did.


	12. Memory

**Memory**

Kurenai sashays over to him and presses a cold glass of lemonade to the back of his neck. Kurenai never simply walks. She sashays. Like a lady.

He barely bites back a yelp, startled. She chuckles and draws the glass away, the ice cubes clinking against each other, moisture dripping from the cold clear glass containing the yellow liquid, sweat and refreshing. Asuma's mouth waters and he looks at it longingly, grasped firmly in her delicate pale hand. Her nails are red spades, the same shade of crimson as her full lips, as her beautiful eyes, framed by long dark lashes.

She hands him the glass and he eagerly drinks it. The heat is heavy, overwhelming, with the added frustration of moisture in the air that signaled of a coming storm. Konoha didn't often get storms. It was a generally warm and dry place. A rare wind blows and the wind chime rustles delicately.

Kurenai sashays to the rocking chair next to him and she sprawls elegantly in it. Kurenai never simply sits. She sprawls. Elegantly. Like a lady.

He glances over at her as he sips at the lemonade she had oh so graciously granted him, and nearly chokes. Kurenai had been a late bloomer, so when her friends had started buying bras she had remained as flat as a plank. There had obviously been teasing. But when she became sixteen all of a sudden within the span of a year she grew some considerable… assets. The results were that she was inordinately proud of them, not that they weren't nice. They were nice. Very nice. And so Kurenai had a habit of… flaunting them a bit. And today with the heat it worse than ever, or maybe better than ever depending on how you looked at it. The fishnet top was nowhere in sight.

And now, in the baking heat of that Saturday afternoon, Asuma could clearly see a drop of sweat roll gracefully down the exposed curve of her breast, her nipple just out of sight, hidden beneath the silken folds of her clothing. Sensing his gaze her red eyes flashed over to him and she smirked. He felt a blush burn away at his face in embarrassment at being caught looking.

She chuckled again and shook her head.

"You can look you know. It's okay since I'm yours."

At that he could feel his blush grow even stronger and she tilted her head back and let loose a long trilling laughter, rich and creamy, making his stomach do flips inside his body.

Despite his embarrassment his eyes sneaked another peek at her. Her dark curly hair was sticking to her neck with sweat, and her blood red eyes were flashing with amused fondness.

He looked quickly away again and harrumphed indignantly to save face.

Still laughing a bit, she reached out a hand and placed it on his and leaned over and pecked his cheek. Flustered, he sputtered for awhile and she just looked at him lovingly. In the days and years after his death this would be one of the memories she would always keep safe and close to her heart as she remembered him, kneeling at his grave, their son at her side, too young to understand why his mother was crying or who this Asuma Sarutobi man was.

After awhile he kissed her back as well, right on the lips. It was a good day. Even if it was hot as hell.


	13. Autumn

**Autumn**

She is nestled in the gnarled roots of the trees and she watches, hypnotized, as the soft orange, startling red and golden yellow leaves fly by in the wind, carried by the sharp wind. Temari has never seen autumn before. It is an interesting sight.

The leaves tumble along on the ground, doing cartwheels across the dirt, spiraling and dancing in the air, somehow elegant, somehow chaotic. Temari shivers at the howl of the wind and fastens her scarf, and despite the discomfort, the cold, the wind that blows her sand colored hair into her eyes and face, much to her annoyance, she wistfully wishes that they had autumn back home. It is beautiful.

She has yet to see spring, the twirling pink fall of the sakura petals, a butterfly visiting a blooming rose. She has yet to see winter, ice cold snow, each crystal as unique as the last, each and everyone different and special, falling in a freezing flurry, reminding her of a deadly sandstorm as she is bundled up in warm cloth and suffocating caps and jackets and furs as she longs for home. She has yet to see summer, so warm like her home, yet different, bright green grass everywhere, bees buzzing, life thrumming, farmers prospering and water sparkling in the sunlight. She has yet to see any of the seasons out of her home, the never changing Suna, but she is now witnessing autumn for the first time, and she can definitely see the charm of it.

The sunlight is somehow paler, somehow softer, less penetrating, less warm. Her hair tumbles and flies in the wind like the leaves but is anchored to her scalp.

As she will witness the tentatively blooming flowers of spring, the prosperous life of summer, and the white flurry of winter, she will always remember her first season, autumn, and she will always treasure it as the most beautiful one, the greatest, the best. When she travels through villages where the leaves fall and change color and the frost sets into the ground she will grown nostalgic and fond and even wistful.

She will never breathe a word of it to anyone, as it is an unimportant fact of no consequence, just a boring little tidbit of her life, no great secret, no life changing revelation , but she will always love autumn the most.

It is just a season, she knows. Just a change of temperature, just a shedding of leaves, but to her, it is somehow magical. To her, the chilly fall wind is whispering unheard secrets. To her, there is something deliberate about the way the leaves dance in the wind. To her, the pale sun making the frost creeping upon the loose earth on the break of dawn glitter and sparkle is somehow sweet and wonderful. There is just enough coldness to make her blush just the faintest bit, little enough to make it not horribly obvious, but enough to make her look slightly more girlish than usual, a little more lovely. Temari is not a vain person but just like any other girl she likes to look pretty on occasion, no matter how subtly.

Temari will always be an autumn girl.


	14. Moonlight

**Moonlight**

Moonlight spills through the window and Hinata reflects on how she has always thought that moonlight seems somehow otherworldly, somehow alien, something not meant for planet earth. Of course these are just silly ponderings of hers, she is no great poet, no revolutionary thinker, no genius. Sasuke Uchiha was the genius, clever and quick on his feet, always ready to wriggle his way out of a tight spot with a well placed kunai, Naruto-kun the revolutionary thinker, so ambitious, so determined to not just shoot for the stars but the moon itself, no, the sun, great and burning and forever, Nii-sama the great poet, so skilled with words, always having possessed a certain dramatic flair.

Hinata was none of these things. She was average as far as Hyuuga Heiresses were concerned, and she had no great plans for the future, except for maybe taking away the Caged Bird seal if she could, if she ever really did become the Clan Head and not her little sister Hanabi instead, and that was an of course anyways. She was by no means a great poet. She was just horrible with words. She could barely even speak. She stuttered and mumbled and blushed while her Nii-sama bellowed his inner musings and thoughts for all the world to hear with confidence she had never once possessed in her life.

But nonetheless, moonlight was somehow… magical almost, and she could never help thinking this when she saw it.

It was night now, the moon full and fat and at the height of its ascent in the dark night sky, and she could not sleep. She could not. She was unable to close her pale white Hyuuga eyes, unable to relax her tense and wired muscles, ready for action at the drop of a hat. She could not sleep.

She didn't know why. It seemed that for some reason memories and thoughts were simply plaguing her more than usual that night for some unfathomable reason. She held her breath. Her being stuffed into a burlap sack into the middle of the night, being kidnapped, confusion, fear, panic.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Neji, scrubbing the floors with a blank expression on his face as she watched him from her bedroom window would flash through her mind. She remembered that he hadn't been at his father's funeral. They hadn't had a body to bury, but they had held the burial rituals out of respect anyways, and Neji hadn't been there. Hinata had had a horrid feeling that he hadn't been allowed.

She hid her face underneath her pillow. Gaara, crushing those shinobi's to death with his sand.

She buried her face in her hands. Naruto, gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white as he cheered her on, yelling encouragement with all his might, her amazement that he even knew her name, that he supported her, was enraged on her behalf.

She shook and a flash of Nii-sama's fist flying for her chakra points, face furious and focused, would fly through her mind.

She would pull the covers above her head and there was the image of dozens of Naruto-kun's charging at Nii-sama.

Memories plagued her and she stared at the otherworldly luminance of the full moon and waited for the night to be over. Sometimes it was just like that. Sometimes her past would just not leave her alone for no reason at all and she would just have to wait it out, shrug off the blows and take it. It would be over soon, when the otherworldly moon left and the familiar comforting sun rose. When dawn came she would be able to return back to the present, to what was important. But for now she would have to bathe in alien moonlight and hold back her tears. For now.

* * *

Am writing chapters as fast as I can think of them. I wonder how many chapters I'll write before someone reviews. It would be truly depressing if I managed to hit the hundred chapter mark without any feedback at all.


	15. Spearmint

**Spearmint**

The clue was subtle, almost unnoticeable. But Sakura had been Naruto's friend since childhood. She knew all his quirks and habits, and when he deviated she speculated.

"What," Sakura said, voice suspicious, hostile almost. "Is this?"

Naruto slowly turned his head in her direction, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead, as if he were in a horror movie. Sakura's Angry Voice was notorious for inspiring that sort of irrational fear. Sakura refused to acknowledge to herself that she was getting hyped over nothing. Maybe she liked being angry. She probably did.

Naruto stared blankly for a moment at what Sakura was brandishing at him as if it was a cross and he a vampire with utter incomprehension.

"…Huh?" he said eventually, completely befuddled.

Sakura was holding up a stick of Spearmint gum.

"I found this in on your desk the other day when I was visiting. Care to explain?" she said, eyes flashing.

Naruto blinked at her slowly, still not quite knowing what the hell was going on. "Wha… what?"

"Today," she said slowly, clearly, carefully enunciating the words so that his tiny primate brain could understand, "is Thursday. Last time I visited you, before Wednesday I mean, it was Monday. This _Spearmint _gum," she said Spearmint like it was a curse and waved the stick of gum for emphasis when she mentioned it "was not on your desk on Monday."

Realization slowly dawned on Naruto's face, but she would be damned if she were to stop now. She was on a roll.

"I guess one of your _other _friends could have left it there between Monday and Wednesday, _except,_" and now she leaned into Naruto's personal bubble, glare burning into his eyes, "you were sick on Tuesday. I called you. Offered to come over. Make you chicken soup. Take care of you, just like a true friend should. But you said that that was okay. I didn't have to come over. You could look after yourself."

Naruto's eyes were quickly darting back and forth, searching desperately for some sort of escape, an exit, a window, _anything. _Sakura grabbed his shoulder and squeezed uncomfortably tightly, her intimidating sugar sweet smile in place.

"And that's okay. I understand that. I can respect that. EXCEPT!" and now she practically shoved the stick of Spearmint gum into his face. "You don't chew Spearmint gum! You never do! You only ever chew _cinnamon! _Always! Never anything else!"

She let that hang in the air for a moment, let that sink in.

"Sakura-chan-" Naruto began what was no doubt some sort of pathetic excuse that he would expect her to fall for like some sort of _idiot…! _

"Ah!" she clapped her hand over his mouth and glared even more furiously. "So, I am forced to the conclusion that between my visits of Monday and Wednesday, on Tuesday, the day you were _sick, _someone visited you."

Naruto's whimper was muffled by her hand. Sakura felt zero pity for him.

"But that can't be right! There some sort of inconsistency here! Because, after all, you denied my generous offer to take care of you on Tuesday. And I'm your closest friend, your oldest friend, your _dearest _friend. Which means that, obviously, you can't have possibly invited someone over to your house to entertain you and take care of you when you were sick that _wasn't me! _I mean, it can't be possible that there is someone you care _more _about than me, right? Huh?"

Naruto wasn't looking at her anymore. By now he had squeezed his eyes shut. Sakura wondered if she looked down she'd see him clicking the heels of his shoes together as he chanted that there was no place better than home. The thought almost made her snort. Everyone knew you couldn't do that without ruby slippers.

"Naruto," she breathed deathly still, eyes wide and lethal, "whose gum is this?"

She removed her hand from Naruto's mouth so that he could answer.

"Sa-Sasuke…" he whispered hoarsely, eyes still shut tight.

There was a moment of silence.

And then…

"Oh. _Oh! _I see!" Sakura dropped the piece of gum into Naruto's lap and retreated from his personal space. "Well alright then. Why didn't you just mention that?"

Naruto opened his eyes hesitantly and looked up at her as if she were about to punch him, which was just ridiculous. Sakura would never use violence to make a point. _Never. _Sakura was a peaceful girl, and anyone who disagreed would have some broken bones to deal with.

"…Wait, what? W-why is that okay?"

Sakura gave him her you're-an-idiot look, which she did on a daily basis, before shrugging. "Well, it's Sasuke right? I mean, if it were anyone else, like Sai or Kiba or Gaara, I'd still be pretty mad. But it's _Sasuke._"

Naruto, looking more confused than ever if that was possible, still managed to beam a relieved smile. "Um… okay? That's good."

"I mean, those guys are just your friends. I totally understand holding your _lover _in higher esteem than your best friend. Heck, you two have to catch-up on nookie _sometime, _am I right?"

And then she smiled sweetly and walked off, her uniform skirt billowing around her. Recess was almost over.

Naruto gaped at her as her words sunk in.

"Wait… what? What!? _Lover!? _Sakura-chan! What the hell do you think me and Sasuke-teme do together!? It's not like that! Sakura-chaaan!"

Despite his furious denials the blush staining his cheeks was undeniable. Sakura giggled. Boys could be so dense sometimes. He'd come around eventually. She'd make sure of it.

And with that, Haruno Sakura walked into her classroom, cracking her knuckles ominously. Her fellow students gave her a wide berth.


	16. Puppy-love

**Puppy-love**

His shoelaces are tied halfheartedly and he is deep asleep at his desk despite it being only first period.

"Who's that?" she asks her friend in a curious whisper. It's the first day of middle school and nearly everyone there are familiar faces from her old school, those she does not know by name she at least knows by face. But the sleeping boy is a complete and utter stranger to her.

Her friend peers over her shoulder at where she's pointing and frowns disapprovingly. "Oh, I recognize him. That's Shikamaru 'Lazy' Nara. Don't get mixed up with him. He's such a slacker."

She then turns away from the boy, the mere sight of him apparently offending to her, and she sniffs haughtily. She supposes that her friend is acting a little more snobby than usual due to being nervous. Everyone's nervous. It's the first day of high school after all. They aren't kids anymore. No more fun and games. No more simplicity. Nobody said it out loud but they were all sure that everything was going go downhill from here.

Everyone but the sleeping boy though. He looked very relaxed.

XXX

She tucks her blond hair behind her ear and tries to ignore how clammy her palms her, how fidgety she is, how butterflies roar and soar inside her stomach. It was chemistry. She'd always sucked at chemistry. And she'd heard that everyone in this class had to have a randomly assigned lab partner, which meant that she would most definitely not get her friend, would get someone else, some more judgmental, someone more disapproving, someone who would sneer at her disability to mix a few liquids together without making it explode.

Her partner ended up being the sleeping boy.

"Hi," she had said. "I'm Ino."

He had given her a dull, sleepy look and muttered, "Shikamaru. Troublesome…"

He confused her.

He gave the blackboard a single onceover, her a single considering onceover, sighed as if the world rested on his shoulders, and then lazily, sloppily, without even looking, gotten all of the correct ingredients and then with a startling thump that made her nearly jump out of her skin practically passed out on their joint desk face first. She wondered if it hurt.

XXX

She and her friend decided to eat lunch up at the roof on the last school day of the first week. Just to try it out and see how it was. Her friend's bright pink bento contained cute bunny shaped rice balls and colorful food that looked too pretty to eat. She looked down at her simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich inside a brown paper bag and decided to buy the cutest, most expensive bento box she could find when school was over, along with an extremely girl cook book. She absolutely hated being showed up.

They ate their lunch on the roof, decided they preferred it to the cafeteria, and resolved to eat there from then on.

XXX

On Monday during lunch they eat up at the roof again. This time they are not alone. The sleeping boy is there, along with another stocky boy eating chips.

Somehow, they end up dragged into conversation with them. Actually it might be more accurate to say that they ended up dragged into conversation with the stocky boy. The sleeping boy continued doing what he did to be deserved to be christened as the sleeping boy in her mind. He slept. He always did.

"Yeah, actually we found this place on the first day, Monday. But we didn't come here Friday because Shikamaru got sick." The stocky boy explains.

Ah. She had noticed when he hadn't showed up that day. It had bothered her infinitely, niggling away at her, distracting, mind-consuming. She'd chewed all of her pencils up to splinters that day.

Ino nodded and opened her brand new bento. It was round, smooth, shiny, new. Her friend casually glanced at then froze, her leaf green eyes widening comically. She repressed a smile, barely, and opened the soft purple box to reveal her lunch. The entire weekend she had been working away at the oven to perfect her lunch. Her fingers were covered in band aids and minor burns.

Her lunch made even the stocky boy drool in envy. It was an artwork, not a meal. She ate it anyways.

Her friend glared at her for the rest of lunch in badly veiled jealousy and rage, the stocky boy prattled on oblivious as he ate his chips, and the sleeping boy slept. It was oddly comforting. Thank god he didn't snore.

XXX

On Thursday her friend was still mad at her for showing her up and had decided to ignore her for about a week or so. She was touchy like that, sometimes. She had shrugged, unconcerned, and gone to eat her lunch at the roof as usual. She did this partly out of spite. Now her friend couldn't eat at the roof. She was avoiding after all. Ha ha. They were both terrible, selfish girls and deserved each other.

This time the sleeping boy was awake. He still looked like he was about to doze off at any moment though, his eyelids sometimes fluttering momentarily shut before they snapped open. The stocky boy wasn't there.

Her and the sleeping boy were alone on the roof together. Why did that make her more nervous than chemistry?

His green eyes were fixed on the sky, trailing and examining clouds as if he were planning to reach up and dissect them, and he ignored her. That stung.

And so she smiled at him politely despite the fact that he couldn't, wouldn't, see it and said, "Where's Chouji?"

He still didn't look at her. She felt the beginning simmering of fury spark within her. She was a temperamental girl.

"Vending machine. Needed more chips." He drawled, his voice sleepy and quiet.

She wondered if he was like this because he never slept during the night, if was a nocturnal person, or if this was just how he was, lazy as hell. She had a sinking feeling that it was the later.

"Oh," she says, and because the silence is growing and becoming awkward (for her at least) and the stocky boy seemed to be taking his sweet time buying his chips she decided to break the hated silence into a million eenie teenie tiny pieces and dance on the shards in stilettos. She is a vindictive girl.

She holds up her pretty new bento box and smiles sweetly at him. "Want to share lunch?" he has no bento box, not even a brown paper bag with a PBJ sandwich. She supposes he was too lazy to pack one.

Finally, _finally, _his eyes slide over to her and she is filled with satisfaction and gratification. She won.

She opens the lid and shows him the contents. His expression doesn't change but his stomach growls very loudly.

Somehow she manages to drag him into conversation.

XXX

It is Friday, the last day of her friend's shunning, and she and she sleeping boy are splitting her lunch again. The stocky boy smiles happily at them and eats his chips. The sky is bright blue with a lot of clouds, just as the sleepy boy loves it to be, and the mood is almost festive.

"Do you think there is such a thing as true love?" she asks randomly. She doesn't know why.

He actually appears to carefully consider his answer. For a moment his brow furrows, the corners of his lips travel their slow ascent downwards, and his mood somehow plummets. But then the stocky boy swallows and says, "Remember Asuma-sensei and Kurenai-sensei?"

And just like that it as if his face is the sky clearing abruptly after a dark storm. His features smooth out and he even grins a little. That is the first time that she realizes that he is actually handsome. It may be the first time but it won't be the last.

He nods at her amicably. "Yeah, there's definitely true love out there, even though it's rare."

He doesn't say _I think so _or _I believe. _He stated it like it was a fact. Coming from his lips (and now she was thinking about his lips) it was very uplifting.

She smiled for the rest of the day.

XXX

It is now a month since middle school began, and she can now make her own amazing, delicious bento easily. Her mother smiles tearfully and says she's growing up. Her father shakes his head and says she's getting overemotional because of the P-pills. Her mother hits him. Her father apologizes profusely. Begs on his hands and knees. Her mother huffs. Her father does the dishes that night and everything is okay again.

It's raining today so she and her friends can't eat at the rooftop as usual. But they are loathe to eat amongst commoners so find somewhere else to eat. They end up on in the abandoned west wing, eating in what looks to be an old music classroom.

Her friend, who is deceptively strong despite her gentle pink appearance, and the stocky boy, who not only has fat on his frame but muscles as well, hand wrestle and the sleeping boy looks morosely out of the window up at the gloomy sky. She wants to cheer him up. The notion will not leave her. When she looks up from her bento at him, depression prominent in his (beautiful) green eyes the food in her mouth ends up tasting like cardboard.

As her friend beats the stocky boy for the second time in a row, accidentally slips and calls him fat, and he growls and beats her easily in the next round (note to self: _never call stocky boy fat_) she sets aside her bento and sits next to him closer than is warranted by mere friends. She likes being close to him.

She nudges him so he'll look at her.

He responds by dropping a bombshell on her out of freaking nowhere.

"My teacher died when it was raining."

His voice is quiet, mournful, subdued. The stocky boy and her friend don't notice, they are locked in an intense struggle, their faces red and hands shaking with effort.

She doesn't know how to react.

And he says nothing more, leaves it at that. She realizes this is his way of dismissing her, discouraging her, making her go away on her own. She grits her teeth and glares viciously. So he thinks he can drive her away? Like hell!

"I'm sorry. But you have to move on." She repeats words people have undoubtedly said to him more than a hundred times concerning this very issue and she knows it. She doesn't care. Because action speaks louder than words.

She leans in and pecks his check gently, chaste and shy. Her face is burning.

For once it seems that she has managed to penetrate his thick armor and ruffle him. It is extremely satisfying to watch. His eyes widen comically, his lips part in shock, two bright spots of red appear on his face. She thinks he looks cute so she does it again.

His shoelaces are tied halfheartedly.


	17. Orphan

**Orphan**

_The floor is packed dirt and the windows have no glass._

"My name's Tenten." Shy, tentative, eager to please, eager for friends, company.

_They sleep on cheap itchy futons, the pillows flat and the blankets thin._

"Hi," a reply, a wary, uncertain smile. You can see a desperate hope for eagerness burning in his eyes. It's the same light as is in yours. All the eyes are the same here.

_When it rains water drips inside the building. They don't have enough pots and pans and cups to cover all the spots so there is a lot of moisture damage, and when you sleep water pitter-patters around you._

"Want to be friends?" a casual question asked in a too casual voice. Your heart thunders underneath your ribcage.

_The food is disgusting. The food is sludge, unhealthy, revolting. But it's better than starving. You eat the small portions and think wistfully of your mother's hearty meals, trying not to cry into your repulsive 'food'._

And now the smile freezes. He has been approached with an offer too good to be true, therefore it must be a lie. He closes off and pulls away before he can open up and be hurt. He would rather risk nothing and live forever in solitude than risk everything and either rise to the top or come crashing down. Nothing good could exist in a world so cruel as to rob a child of its family.

_The woman in charge has a pinched face, wears thick glasses and an ugly shapeless dress. When someone acts out of line she wraps them hard on their fingers with a ruler. The veterans don't even wince anymore, don't cry, don't make a sound, don't even try and explain that it was just a misunderstanding, try and defend themselves and make up excuses if it wasn't. There is no Will of Fire in this place. Only the flames of hell itself that haunts the children's dreams._

You are not surprised. This is your eight attempt and each child reacts the same way. You are too eager, too forward, but you can't help yourself. You are so alone. So very, very alone. You must fill his void but no matter how hard you try you can't.

_They give you lice-ridden dirty stained clothes that remind you of burlap sacks. They sell your old clothes, your last link to your parents while you're sleeping. They always do, to all the children. You cry for hours when you find out and are faced with an ultimatum: wear the rags are go bare. You go bare, shameless and stubborn, until the woman in charge catches you, raps you with the ruler until snot runs down your face. After that you wear the rags, but you are filled with hate._

You are not surprised, but you still curl up into a little ball in the middle of the courtyard and wail like something not human. No one stares. This isn't the first time you have done this and you aren't the only one either. You are not surprised, but you are still crushed. The boy who rejected you slinks away, head bowed and knuckles white, shoulders shaking suspiciously. No one is happy here.

_Sometimes you run away. From the windows of the building, from the courtyard of it, the sky seems dull and lifeless. But when you escape and run into the woods, discard your hated rags on a branch somewhere and run nude and free, the sky looks… frankly, it looks magical. It looks bright and endless, eternal and comforting. When you are in that hated place all you can think as you look at the sky is that that is the sky your parents died under. But when you are outside you see the sky and think, that is the sky my parents lived under. _

You stay there until you are nine. The day they give you an apartment for yourself, away from the woman in charge and her ruler, away from the children just as broken as you are, away from the holey ceiling, glassless windows, dirt packed floor, repelling sludge, and everything else. The new place they give you would be called dingy by most people, but not you, not after where you've lived. The floor is wood, dusty or no, the windows have glass, cracked or no, the ceiling is intact, plaster shedding or no, and the company is nonexistent but it can't hurt you, can't reject you, there is no one to hit you when you strip and walk around the apartment naked. You can buy real food now with your monthly allowance. The only condition to acquire this paradise was that you say yes to becoming a ninja, to risking your life on a daily basis for people you do not know. You did not hesitate.

_Ninja school is hard, but not hard as the miserable monotony of that place. You work hard, so hard; afraid that if you didn't do excellently you would be sent back and that would be hell. When your teacher reluctantly taught the class how to commit suicide in case of dire circumstances you paid attention to intense it was scary. You resolved to do as your teacher said if you were ever sent back._

You still have nightmares about it. You have nightmares about the soft desperately muffled crying that was heard each and every night. You all slept in a big room together. A big cold room. The woman in charge would get drunk in her office right next to her and you could all hear her disgusted muttering through the thin walls. Apparently she only had her job because she had been forced to by her judge after her baby had been found floating in the bathtub, cold and quiet. It had been impossible to find any concrete evidence but it was obvious what had happened. So the law had decided to not-quite punish her by putting her in charge of grieving children.

_Some of the ninja children have bloodlines. These bloodlines give them an edge, an advantage. When you found out that not all children could graduate your already serious training got brought to a whole new suicidal level and you mastered your aim. You have always been a good shot and now you never miss a shot when you shoot kunais and shurikens at targets during class. You notice the teacher noting this with an approving eye once. That brought you over the moon._

You graduate a year earlier and you feel so relieved. So, so relieved. Now, no matter what happens they can't take you back. It's either keep on fighting as a ninja or die. Nothing else. This realization dawns on some of your peers and some of them even cry. But it just makes you euphoric. You don't ever want to go back there. No matter what the alternative is. Even death is preferable.

_A fellow orphan got sick once. One day he started coughing. The next day he was coughing more. He got paler. More pasty. Starting sweaty, always clammy. By the end of the month he was hacking up blood. The woman in charge herded him into the storage closet with a broom and left him there alone for two days. He died screaming weakly for his mommy and daddy and his coughs took over completely, leaving him unable to breathe or speak. Blood had seeped through the door crack and the woman in charge had made four children clean it up. All of it. The blood, the piss, the excrement. The boy. One of the girls who had been forced to clean up became mute, one of the boys tearing his shirt up and hanging himself from a tree in the courtyard. He did in the middle of the night when no one could stop him. You guess it had been the straw that had broken the camel's back for him._

Your Jounin teacher is an eccentric man. One of your teammates makes you suspect he is your teacher's clone, and the other one is silent and stoic. He would eerily remind you of the children from _that place _if it weren't for how prim and neat he was, his white clothes always immaculate, his long dark hair always shining and brushed, smelling sweet and clean. None of the children from _that place_ were ever neat. They looked like they lived in a sewer. It would have been preferable.

Y_our hair had always been cut short because it was so often infected by lice back then. The woman in charge would cut it with a kitchen knife and she would cut it carelessly. Sometimes she would slip and cut the back of your neck a little bit. Every time this happened you screamed shrilly, always so sure that this time she had cut all the way through, this time your had wasn't connected to your body anymore, this time you were just a disembodied head screaming from the floor it was rolling across, dead already yet still somehow screaming and screaming and screaming. But then the woman in charge would slap you so hard your lip would split and you'd fly back to reality. You kept your hair so long now it fell past your waist. You wore it in buns of course, so it wouldn't get in the way. It would be easier to just cut it but you would rather cut your head off for real than cut your dear precious long hair. You loved it with a frightening desperation._

You come to love your team. Gai, so confident, so genuinely kind, so caring. Lee, so determined, so admiring, such an underdog. Neji, so misunderstood, always closing off and pulling away like one of the children from _that place. _He is like a bird with a broken wing and you want to heal him. You can sympathize with him, so therefore you tolerate his worse moments. You come to love them all but you still fear that they do not love you. This is what you have nightmares about now.

_Slowly, you leave behind that place. Details fade. You forget the glassless windows, the moisture damage, the dirt packed floor. You forget the mute girl and the boy who pulls away with shaking shoulders and a frozen smile. You forget the rats. The lice. You don't forget everything, oh no. That place will forever haunt you; it scarred you more than a kunai ever could. You will always remember the blood seeping through the door crack, the boy who hanged himself, the ruler, how horrible the sky looked from the courtyard of that place. You remember many things. But you forget as well. You are moving on, finally. You thought it would never happen. But it is. A miracle._

Years later the stoic neat boy has healed, like you. He smiles sometimes now. He hurts people less, hurts less himself. And you have grown confident that your team loves you just as much as you love them, a fierce eternal love that nothing could shatter. You are a Jounin. You are skilled. You are an adult. You will definitely never return to _that place _again. It is entirely outside of the realm of possibility. You can go for days without thinking about it. You are finally happy.

_Your name is Tenten. You are an orphan._


	18. Confrontation

**Confrontation**

Naruto had envisioned this moment again and again, countless times over the years. It had been his goal, his dream, and his ambition. Becoming Hokage had, without him even noticing it, become a secondary goal, a secondary priority, something he would willingly give up for this, what he was experiencing right at that very moment. He had dreamed of it, anticipated it, and strived for it. All those tears, all that sweat, so much blood. All of it for that moment which he was living right then, living, experiencing, breathing it. It was happening right this very moment. It was impossible to comprehend.

He craned his neck and looked up, up and up, and he saw him. He forgot Sakura's and Sai's presence beside him, he forgot what he was doing, where he was, he even forgot that the sky was blue for a moment there. There, standing above, expression cool and unreadable, detached almost, as if he had nothing to do with them or him or the situation at all, stood his goal, his dream, what he had strived for and bled for and fought for, for two and a half unbearably long years.

"Sasuke…" he breathed without even noticing, cold sweat beading on his forehead and his heart thundering in his chest. What was he supposed to do now? Hit him? Fight him? Fall to his knees and beg him to come home? Talk?

Now that the actual moment was here Naruto was at a loss for what to do. But he felt. He felt angry and furious, he felt betrayed and spat upon, sad and despairing, longing and wanting, happy and elated, satisfied yet tired, love and care. He wanted to laugh and cry and shout and scream. His gaze was passionate.

But Sasuke's face was a blank canvas. He looked serene, calm, unruffled and unsurprised. That pissed him off more than it should. He stomped down on a hysterical giggle that tried to worm its way out of his throat. Sasuke had always been able to get under his skin.

"So even you're here," and his voice is a little deeper than when he had last seen him, but it is still recognizable. "Huh, Naruto?"

And as he says his name, as he hears his name spoken in his voice, the syllables formed with his mouth, the letters uttered by his vocal chords, Naruto knows exactly what it is he wants to do. He wants to take him home, just as he always has, and he wants to cover up that damned Curse mark that started all of this, he wants to get rid of that purple rope too that Orochimaru's other followers had worn as well, he wants to get rid of any evidence of what happened two and a half years ago and is still happening, he wants to erase the past and hug the bastard, hug him until his ribs ache, until breathing is a difficulty, he wants to pin his arms to his sides and never let him go, never out of his sight, never out of his arms, and that is what he wants to do. That's what he's always wanted to do.

He knows what he wants to do again, but he doesn't know how to go about it, and he certainly doesn't know what to say. So he stays silent, looking up at Sasuke.

"Is Kakashi here too?"

Naruto can't think of how to respond to that despite the fact that the answer is obviously _no_, but he does note that Sasuke doesn't add 'sensei' after Kakashi-sensei's name. For some reason that stings.

"Sorry it's not Kakashi-san, but I'm his substitute. As Kakashi's group we'll be taking you back to Konoha." Yamato suddenly says and Naruto's eyes flash over to him, startled. He'd been so intent in his staring match with Sasuke that he hadn't even noticed Yamato approaching.

"Kakashi's group huh," Naruto takes careful note of every word Sasuke utters, commits it to memory and preserves it forever. He can't help but think that something awful will happen again and Sasuke will be snatched away from him again and he wouldn't be able to see him again for two and a half years filled with sweat and blood and tears and missing. He's missed him so much.

And then Sai draws his sword.

"SAI! So you really were-" Sakura shrieks and Naruto doesn't know what to think so he keeps on saying nothing, keeps on not moving, keeps on not doing anything as events progress and transpire around him unhindered and unaffected by his presence, as if he is just an observer, just a statue, an audience sitting in the bleachers watching a dramatic play at its climatic point.

"It was him that filled my absence? Saying something like he'll protect my and Naruto's bonds… Once again another tepid guy has come into this." Sasuke says, his voice not raised yet still easily heard.

"What?" Sakura asked, confused and unsure of what to believe. Naruto feels just the same just times hundred.

"Yeah, it's true that my classified mission was Sasuke-kun's assassination. But I'll leave his life alone now. I want to make my own decisions. Naruto-kun, let me remember… my past feelings. Something that I felt was very important to me." Sai says, his sword raised towards the sky.

He looks at Sai when he speaks but when the ROOT member looks up at Sasuke he does as well. His face is still unreadable, pale and still and beautiful, like a marble statue.

"I don't really know you that much. But with Naruto-kun and Sakura-san chasing you this far so desperately, I have some reason to be here. If you cut your bonds with him… you'll become desperate to connect yourself once more. I still don't know how to say this clearly. But, you know Sasuke-kun. You should know that yourself." Sai says.

"Yeah I know. That's why I broke them off." And now Sasuke's face is… it's horrible somehow. He doesn't know if it looks sad or tired or merciless or cruel, but when he sees it, when he hears the words, the first word that pops into Naruto's head is _self-flagellation. _

The thought makes Naruto want to cry. He resists.

"I carry another bond…" and the words are packed with meaning and the air somehow becomes even tenser, somehow heavier still when it had already been weighing down on Naruto's shoulders like the weight of the world, making him want to fall to his knees, making him want to give up the fight with gravity and life and all that was and just die lying in a curled up little ball on the ground amongst the rubble. Or maybe it's just the sight of Sasuke that's doing that to him.

"And it's one of hatred. With my brother." Ah. This again. That's right. It may have been Orochimaru that marked him, may have been Sasuke who made the choice, the Sound Four who took him, but in the end it all comes down to Uchiha Itachi. Naruto hates him not only for what he did to Sasuke, for how he hurt his own little brother who trusted and loved him and betrayed and killed his own family, something that Naruto has wished for with all his heart since the day he learned the word _family_, but he hates him most of all for how he had affected Sasuke, of the hatred and lust for vengeance that he had caused to exist inside Sasuke.

Something flashes through his dark eyes and Naruto would bet anything in the world that Sasuke was thinking about his brother, was remembering the red of his eyes, the merciless monotone of his voice, and the familiarity of a face he had once loved and had now grown to hate. It tugged at Naruto's heartstrings and he vowed right then and there that if when he brought Sasuke home (because there was no doubt in his mind that that was what he was going to do) and Konoha decided that Sasuke wouldn't be allowed to be a ninja anymore, wouldn't be allowed to leave the village ever again, then he would do the vengeance for him. He would avenge not only the Uchiha's for him, but he would avenge Sasuke himself as well, he would avenge the happiness lost and he would avenge even himself, those two and a half years of ache and longing for his friend, of feeling like he'd failed him and everyone in the world, of feeling the like the lowest of the low, like scum.

Naruto would kill for Sasuke just to be happy. He'd do anything for him, anything but to stay away. He wouldn't be able to bear that. The last two and a half years alone had been agony.

"Having many bonds lead my strongest ambition astray. It weakens your important feelings." His voice is dull and bored, flat. Yet he can hear the importance in the words, the raw feeling.

Naruto felt another spiked hatred for Itachi rise within him.

_You who doesn't even have parents or siblings, you nothing about me! You who's been alone since the beginning! How can you understand me!? Huh?! It's because of bonds that we suffer! Does someone like you know even know how it is to lose that?_

Shouted words from long ago ring through his head, clear as bell, still ringing in his ears, still fresh and new in his mind, unable to sink in. It was true that he wouldn't know anything about real parents or siblings someone would have, someone normal, someone with a living breathing family. He didn't understand Sasuke's pain. This was true.

"…Then…" he says and his blue eyes are downcast and shiny, his mouth a pained grimace as misery washes over him. Memories flash through his mind.

_Why? Why would you go that far for me…?_

_It was… the bond I was finally able to make. And it was with you._

…_That's why I'll stop you!_

"Then why at that time…" the words are difficult to speak, a stone lodged in his throat straining his vocal chords and making it hard to breathe distracting him from trying not to let his voice crack or hot tears to spill down his face.

_In that case I'll break those bonds. _

"THEN WHY DIDN'T YOU KILLE ME!? DINDN'T YOU PLAN ON CUTTING THOSE BONDS!?" and now the words rushes out, loud and furious, demanding. He looks up from his shoes, back up at Sasuke, and he can feel a vein throb in his forehead.

"Naruto…" Sakura softly whispers, but it isn't her that he wants to speak, isn't her that he wants to whisper his name or look at him with something other than indifference. Not anymore.

"It's a simple reason. I didn't cut myself off from you." He says, closing his eyes, posture casual and relaxed.

"It was to follow a way I heard from him." there is no doubt in his mind who _he _is. "It was only a measure to get power."

"What the hell do you mean?" he asks, knuckles white and heart loud in his ears. It just won't stop.

"I don't need to explain to you." He says imperiously, and it is such a strong reminder of the old days of Sasuke arrogantly dismissing him, but in lighter situations than now, that his heart skips a beat painfully.

"But still… what I can say to you is… at that time I only saved you on a whim." The words are cutting and meant to hurt but Naruto doesn't allow them to. Sasuke's always been an unfriendly bastard. It was hard to be his best friend. But Naruto managed. He was tough.

But then all of a sudden Sasuke is standing far above and then… he is close. So, so close. He can smell his herbal shampoo, he can smell the iron of his sword, and he can smell the soft enchanting musk that is Sasuke's all alone. Naruto could even reach out and hug him if he wanted to, but he doesn't. He's frozen in place with shock and _Sasuke is voluntarily touching him. _Just a light hand on his shoulder. Probably not a friendly gesture either. But it makes him dizzy for just a moment all the same.

"Oh right… Didn't you have a dream of becoming Hokage…?" he says right next to his ear, his breath ghosting the shell of his ear and its cold and minty yet it feels like his skin is burning, where Sasuke's breath and Sasuke's hand touches he burns.

"Is it really so good if you lost even that by chasing me? Isn't it Naruto?" he suppresses a shudder at hearing his name spoken by those lips again.

He remembers dazedly that he'd once kissed them, and had hit them on more than once occasion.

"Sa… Sasuke-kun!" Sakura says.

"That's why this time…" Sasuke says, ignoring her like the bastard he is, "at my whim you'll lose your life."

The sound of his sword being unsheathed fills his ears, the soft scrape so vital and important that it was all he could think of.

Naruto can't follow his logic, can't understand it or comprehend it. Sasuke's always been so damn complicated about some things, needlessly so. He doesn't understand the charm of simplicity, doesn't understand the happiness to be gained by simply being a ninja, by simply being home, by simply having friends, by being happy. He doesn't understand and Naruto's starting to think he doesn't want to. But sometimes a person doesn't want what he needs. _Self-flagellation _Naruto think again and would have shuddered if he wasn't still frozen to the spot. This was too much at once, too much Sasuke, too much emotion, too much turmoil, too much everything. He just wants to lie down for a second and breathe. Maybe it would be nice if Sasuke was down on the ground with him, trapped in a tight, tight hug that he wouldn't be able to escape from.

That would be nice.

"A person who doesn't save one of his friends can hardly become Hokage. Isn't that right, Sasuke?" he manages, and he means every word with every fiber of his being.

"Hrmph!" Sasuke grunts dismissively. Naruto doesn't know why but for some reason he loves him a little bit for that, at least more than usual.

Sakura shrieks Sasuke's name and the blade comes down.

Naruto closes his eyes, certain that it will cut through him, certain that death is near. He doesn't know that in a moment Sai will block the blade and life will go on, the show will go on, the drama, the tragedy, the battles, all of it, will go on. But for now he knows with a certainty that he will soon be dead just as he knows that the sky is blue and grass is green. But he isn't troubled by this because his hand is stuffed in his pocket and the second he feels pain, feels hot slick blood run down his back, he determines to activate it, to take both him and his best friend down.

He hopes that maybe in the afterlife he can hug the bastard.

* * *

All of the dialogue is taken straight out of the manga, this is just a take on what I think might have been going through Naruto's head at the time. Probably not but whatever.


	19. Relationship

**Relationship**

"I can't believe it."

"Huh? What do you mean?" Sakura asked, turning to her friend and teammate, looking away from the sight which was attracting the attention of pretty much everyone.

Sasuke looked as surprised as she'd ever seen him. Sometimes she wondered if he'd been in a training accident when young and the nerves in his face were simply numb.

"I can't believe it." Naruto agrees with a nod, blue eyes wide, uttering an unknowing opposite echo of his catchphrase.

"What!?" Sakura demands, exasperated and disbelieving. "It was obvious!"

Her teammates turn to her in unison.

"It was not. At all." Sasuke says somehow accusingly.

Naruto nods in agreement.

Sakura furrows her pink brows. "What? Is this some sort of dense male thing? It was _so _obvious."

"_How!?_" Naruto explodes. "I didn't see it coming!"

"At all," Sasuke agrees.

They've been doing that a lot lately… agreeing that is. Sakura gives them a brief speculative look and wonders. They cause this reaction in her several times a day. But for now she instead decides to focus on the matter at hand.

"Well firstly, Tenten has been making eyes at Neji since the day we met her. Christ! Did you see her during his preliminary match? His match against you, Naruto? Or how about she cried over his dying body back during that battle? She is _obsessed _with him!"

They both frown in unison. Sakura fears that they may be slowly but surely be merging into one being, starting with their minds.

"How would _I _know that she was staring at Neji during _our _fight? I was busy!" Naruto protests at the same time as Sasuke says, "Well _duh. _We _knew _that, Sakura. But just because _she's _obsessed with him doesn't mean that _he _is!"

As they speak Neji lowers Tenten further in their spontaneous romantic dip, their lips firmly sealed against each other's. People continued gaping at them when they weren't busy boasting about how they'd always known that this would happen sooner or later.

"Well he clearly is." Sakura harrumphs, gesturing a hand towards were the two were enthusiastically kissing. Neji _did _not look disinterested.

"Yeah, _now _he shows interest!" Naruto huffs.

She ignores Naruto.

"He's right you know. There were no earlier clues as to his more than platonic feelings for her."

Sakura rolls her eyes. _"Boys," _she says the word as if it should explain her teammate's ignorance towards their close friend's totally obvious crush, and for her it does.

"You know, I always thought he was gay." Sasuke remarks and Sakura's jaw drops.

"Really? I'd always thought he was asexual." Naruto says.

Sakura can literally not believe what it she's hearing.

"What? But what with the way he's so fussy with his clothes and long girly hair I'd think-"

"You shouldn't believe in stereotypes. It's crude, bastard." The insult comes out sounding like a fond pet name.

"Hn," he says dismissively.

"Well, I'd for one always thought he had no interest in anyone whatsoever. I mean, you never saw him checking a hot girl _or _a hot guy out. He's just… very goal-oriented. Very serious. Solemn. Work-loving." Naruto explains his point.

Sakura finally manages to reclaim her tongue from the infamous cat and speak.

"W-what!? You're both mad! Naruto, if those are your arguments that Neji ought to be asexual then shouldn't that apply to Sasuke-kun too?"

Naruto blinks blankly at her. "Isn't he?"

Now it's Sasuke's turn to let his jaw drop. He spins towards Naruto. Neji and Tenten were still making out, making all of the people inside the Mission Room feel vaguely voyeuristic and shameful.

"Am not!" he squawks indignantly, highly out of character.

"Oh? You aren't?" Naruto questions curiously.

"No!"

"Oh. Then what are you?"

This brings Sasuke up short.

"What?"

"I said what are you? Hetero? Homo? Pedo? Bestiality? Necrophilia freak? Hm?"

Sasuke looks like he's about to explode. A sly grin makes its way onto Naruto's face.

"Oooh… I see." He says mysteriously. Sakura draws out of her temporary shock and perks up with curiosity.

"What do you see, Naruto?" Sakura questions.

"_You,_" he says, ignoring Sakura (possibly as retribution for earlier) and pointing a dramatic finger at Sasuke face far too closely. Sasuke leans away from the finger, going comically cross-eyed as he tries to keep his eyes on it. "_Like _someone."

"Wh-what?"

"You heard me!" Naruto crowed gleefully. "You like someone! Who is it? Hinata-chan? Ino? Temari, maybe? If it's the last one I've got some bad news for you. I think she's into Shikamaru. Or maybe it's not one of the girl's? Kiba, maybe? Or no! Wait! I've got an idea!"

He puts up his hands as if he's framing the suggestion. "Teacher-crush? Is that it, huh? You into Kakashi-sensei? You're in luck! He's into students. He tried to hit on me once, I think."

Sasuke's mouth opens and closes for a moment, resembling a fish as best as he can with such a handsome face before he gives up and latches onto one of the few things in Naruto's statement that had actually registered. Sakura was doing far worse off herself.

"He _what!? _Kakashi hit on you!? I'll kill him!" actual killing intent stats rolling off of Sasuke in waves and Sakura hurriedly casts a minor genjutsu that will stop anyone from noticing.

Naruto looks at him surprised, as if he doesn't know why Sasuke would have any trouble with that fact.

"It's okay, Sasuke-bastard. I let him down gently! It's okay man, it's not as if he forced himself on me or anything."

"Um, I think you may maybe have just had another misunderstanding, Naruto. You have a lot of those. Also, Sasuke. Stop jumping to conclusions." Sakura comfortably falls back into her natural state of berating the boys. Reproving gives her warm and fuzzy feelings.

Somehow, Neji and Tenten were still in the process of 'going at it'.

Naruto pouts but Sasuke still looks kind of pissed. As they wait in line to turn in their latest mission report Sasuke glances out of the corner of his eye at Naruto and blushes furiously.

Sakura smirks. _Oh, I see… Looks like you didn't make yet another mistake in _that _assumption, Naruto. But you were seriously far off when you suggested _Kakashi-sensei._ This explains so freaking much._

They turn in their report and Neji carries Tenten off bridal style to, most likely, consummate their relationship that Sakura had seen a mile off. Just as she did the one between her teammates.

* * *

Please review!


	20. Forgetting

**Forgetting**

The sky, looking pale and distant, hangs high in the washed-out looking sky, casting warmthless overly bright light onto the eye wateringly white snow that sparkled like thousands upon millions of little polished diamonds piled high on top of each other until one had to wade through them at waist height as if it were a river, only you're walking upstream and the water is not cheerily chuckling over smooth stones but it is a roaring rush, froth white and salmons leaping, and your steps are slow and sluggish, scrabbling for surface, trying not to slip and fall underneath the surface so that you will drown, though in this situation it would be more appropriate to say freeze.

Despite the fact that his hands are encased in ridiculously thick mittens Neji can't feel his fingers. He's not used to the cold, no one from Konoha is, and there is a nagging worry at the back of his head that the most precious part of his body will acquire frost bite and snap clean off, his fingers. Without them he can't fight, without them he is not a true Hyuuga. Without them he is useless.

His breathes come out of his mouth in a pale visible plume of air. He resisted the urge to hug himself, to tuck his shaking hands into his armpits, and waited patiently outside the inn as Tenten paid the costs for their stay at the inn. Since they had been teammates as Genin they were still sometimes put on missions together, as their teamwork was excellent. He sometimes got to work with Lee too, and Gai, and some good rare times the whole team was back together for however a short time. He enjoyed those the most.

He heard the rattle of the sliding door and glanced over to see Tenten wading through the snow over to him, her thick jacket and pants white for better camouflage, her skin pale with cold except for her cheeks, which were two bright rosy spots of blood on her ticked off face. All of the snow was kind of pissing her off.

_White on white on red. _

She sees him and smiles and back in the old days he wouldn't have smiled back, and he doesn't do so now either, except the difference is that there is a tiny, almost unnoticeable, upwards tug at the corner of his mouth that is not quite a smile. A civilian wouldn't have noticed it, but Tenten was a ninja, a regular human being taken from childhood and crafted into a perfect weapon. She was a painstakingly sharpened, polished kunai, a deadly gleam to her formerly dull edge that had been given to her after years of intense training, of fights to death she had come out victorious over by the skin of her teeth, of war, of an innocent childhood she had had every right to live robbed from her. She had been shaped in the village's image and for that she would always live in danger. She wasn't a civilian. Her entire life had been bloodshed and violence and it would contine to be so till the day she died, which was always frighteningly on the horizon, steel on steel and hand on hand combat. Her life was a tragedy and she was doomed to die an early death.

She glowed with happiness.

"Well, that's that taken care. Let's get out of this freezing dump." She said and they walked towards the port where the ship that would take them home was waiting. It would take at least two hours to get there. It would have taken less than one if it weren't for the snow.

They had already accomplished the mission. A truly risky one worthy of two ninjas of such repute as Neji and Tenten, and as all of those sorts of missions did, it would haunt him to the end of his days. He had held onto the memory until he got the chance to right a report on it, at which point he started on suppressing it as best as he could, as he always did.

The forgetting was still in progress, and so he could remember it still, but only parts. It was all quite hazy, dream-like almost. He remembers lots of shouting and yelling and some shrill screams, he remembers the shriek of steel grinding down steel as Tenten met a enemy shinobi with her katana and they pressed their weight against each other, he remembers metallic clangs as he swatted away shurikens spinning towards his back with his own. And he remembers a cooling corpse lying on the ground, the snow hugging him in an eternal frigid embrace where he would freeze and never be found. He remembers the blood splattered on the dead man's paper white skin, surrounded by bright white snow.

_White on white on red. _

Ah. He'd wondered where that odd little thought had come from earlier.

No one knew of his little forgetting habit, he never told. He kept the most important battles were something actually important happened (besides the death of men and woman who had families and friends and people who loved them and would grieve them and would possibly kill themselves over the loss of their loved one, besides the loss of life, besides the loss of people who had hobbies and habits and quirks and were actual people with personalities and dreams and ambitions and lives, he wondered if the man he killed had a lover back home, a lover who he didn't know was pregnant, like Kurenai, like Asuma, he could be like Hidan for all he knew, destroyer of happy lives, and he probably he was, he definitely was, amongst the hundreds and thousands of people he killed it was an impossibility that not one of them hadn't had loved ones and- he had to stop thinking _now_).

A girl that lived in the village they were walking through, that they were leaving, walked past them, and she wasn't wearing gloves. Kind of weird, but not too much. Tenten wasn't wearing gloves, it was practically impossible to handle weapons with thick mittens or slippery mittens. He glanced at the girls bare pale hands and saw her nails, painted a bright, startling crimson.

_White on white on red. _

He tilted his head to the side as his brow furrowed. Where had that thought come from?


	21. Troublesome

WARNING: Very vaguely described ShikaIno sex here. Also, OOC deliberately done.

**Troublesome**

Her breath is frigid against his burning skin. It feels like there is liquid fire pouring through his veins, not blood. He has never been so alive. He is always sleeping, lazing, napping, and procrastinating in general, but now he just can't stop moving and he _loves _it. His back arches, his hands rove across her body, his hips buck and teeth bite and his mouths sucks and nips and nibbles and teases and he loves it. He has always hated moving but now he loves it, can't get enough of it.

She on the other hand, has never been so cold. In everyday life she is the one who is alive, vibrant and real, shouting and talking and moving always. She will twirl a strand of blond hair around her finger, bite her lower lip, and always be fiddling with someone, any excuse just to be moving. Now it he who has his fingers intertwined with her beautiful, beautiful long hair, it is he who is biting her lower lip. He can't get enough of her. Years of being independent of her he suddenly can't pry himself away from her, and for all intents and purposes it looks like at the moment that she doesn't give a damn, which just makes him want her more for some reason. What is he? A teenage girl?

She moves still, but it is different. It is as if she has suddenly been transformed to an ice queen, her fingers like searching icicles, so cold it burns, so cold it hurts, and the hurt, the pain, it is _good. _He _likes _it. If she were to bring out a kunai he'd still hate it, but this is just enough, just the right amount of hurt. Her long fingernails that she always looks after scratch their way down his back like he's a scratch post, leaving their marks and letting blood bead at the wounds, freeing the liquid fire to cool on his hot, hot skin.

Her kisses are snowflakes, brief and hurried, never brushing the same place twice. Her blond hair is loose and everywhere, tangled in his fingers, his own hair, getting into his mouth as he pants heavily, into hers as their tongues briefly meets before parting. Her legs are wrapped around his waist, and it almost feels like he's wading through snow. She doesn't speak, doesn't make a sound. Noisy Ino is now finally silent. He for one suddenly can't shut the hell up.

"Ino…" he breathes heavily into her freezing neck. "Ino, Ino, Ino, I love you. I love, love, love you."

He had actually resolved not to tell her so, so early, but that went out the window. This was far more important. They said that people became entirely different person's when in bed but this was just ridiculous, he had never foreseen such a change, never could have, and he foresaw all, every possibility there was. His mind could map out dozens of different scenarios in less than a second but now he could barely understand what was happening at the moment, couldn't remember anymore how they got to this bed or couch or futon or whatever it was (wait no, it is definitely a bed, he can hear the springs creak and feel the covers wrinkle underneath heir twisting, grinding, needing bodies, but that's not important, _this _is important, this it to die for, to fight for, to stand for, to _live _for), he couldn't remember when she turned beautifully, wonderfully cold but he loves it, he can definitely get into this, god, it's intoxicating, he can't get _enough _of her…

He laps at her neck, slick tongue gliding over skin that looks as white as now in the dim lighting, and he briefly fears that his tongue will get stuck like those kids do each winter with the lampposts but it doesn't and of course it isn't. She isn't cold, he isn't burning, this is all in his head, the sex is fucking up his head, but, god, and he _loves _it.

"You're amazing, you're beautiful, I love you, Ino." He says, and he sounds pathetic, he knows it, but he can't stop, can't even bring himself to care. He loves her and she's beautiful and his personality has been turned on its head.

He'll be back to normal when they're done but the truth is out, they both heard it, and he loves her.

In some deep corner of his mind where the normal him dwells waiting for it to all be over he sighs wearily as he realizes he's probably going to have to marry this woman. Troublesome.

* * *

Despite what it may look like I assure you Ino is totally into it as well. Just to ease any worries you might have had. Some people are just very different in bed. I assume.


	22. Brawl

**Brawl**

He tipped the bowl up and drained the last drops of salty broth and sighed with content as he thumped the bowl back on the wood counter.

"Thanks for the food!" he yelled and slapped down the appropriate amount of money into the old man's hand. Ichiraku smiled at him and tipped his hat at him and he spun on the bar stool and hopped off.

Naruto tilted his head up towards the sky and grinned at the cloudless blue sky, the sun warm and high up in the sky. It was a good day and his stomach was full of delicious ramen. What to now?

Naruto contemplated this conundrum as he walked through the streets of Konoha, arms crossed behind his head, eyes glazed over as he was deep in thought. And so it was only natural that the inattentive Genin would bump into someone.

"Oof!" he exclaimed, the world spinning everywhere.

"Dobe!" someone snarled into his ear, breath hot and close, and he knew instantly who it was.

"Watch where you're going, bastard!" he yelled hypocritically.

"Me!? You moronic dead last!" arms circled around his neck and squeezed until his eyes watered. He retaliated by jerkily punching the vulnerable midsection next to him on the ground as hard as he could and grinned with satisfaction at the grunt of pain that came with it.

"Duck-butt!" he crowed and flailed until he was standing again, Sasuke hurriedly standing up as well.

They glared at each other fiercely for a moment as if they were cowboys about to go off against each other in a standoff. And then in the middle of the road, passerby's blatantly staring and giving them a wide berth, they lunged for each other.

"Idiot!" he shouted and threw a fist straight for his girly face.

"Ever heard of the kettle calling out the pot, you ignoramus?" he ducked underneath his punch easily and swept out with his foot in a crouch to trip him.

"What are you suddenly babbling about pots and kettles for, you weirdo!?" he went flying into the air but rolled with fall and came up in a crouch with only some dirt on his orange jacket and immediately sprinted for the Uchiha.

Aforementioned Uchiha snorted at him, which just made his blood boil. He'd show the bastard…

He jumped in a flying kick, his foot aimed for that ridiculous duck-butt hair when two pale hands shot out and got a firm grip on his ankle. Sasuke then spun around and the force of Naruto's movement followed, Sasuke effectively swinging Naruto around in a circle.

"BASTAAARD!" he shrieked angrily when he let go and he went flying into a lamppost back-first.

Stars erupted in his vision and he blinked dazedly up from his prone position on the ground to see Sasuke smirking arrogantly down at him. that got him up faster than anything else could have.

He _was _going to land a hit on him, dammit!

He feinted right and Sasuke changed the direction of his body in that direction, his hand curling up into a fist, but he then went for the left. His dark eyes widened and he tried to twist around but it was too late. All that could be seen was an orange blur and then Sasuke Uchiha was sent flying backwards, back arching. He landed with a thump and Naruto shook his hand out with a wince, his knuckles bloody.

Sasuke groaned from the ground and sat shakily up, a hand covering his left eye as Naruto blew on his right one. The bystanders gaped.

"Who's the loser now?" he laughed and reached out a hand to help him up.

It was slapped away and Sasuke stood up on his own.

"Still you," he said coolly and his hand felt to his side.

For a moment all Naruto could do was stare. And then he burst out into laughter.

"Your… your f-face… e-eye… oh my god…" he managed through gasps of laughter, tears of mirth streaming down his face.

Sasuke glared down at him. The effect may have actually been intimidating if it weren't for the fact that one of his eyes was rapidly turning blue and puffy.

"Shut up." He muttered and crossed his arms, looking away to the side.

For some reason this just made Naruto laugh harder.

Five minutes later he gave up and left in a huff, leaving Naruto on his knees dying of lack of oxygen. Brawls were just the best at curing boredom.


	23. Art

**Art**

The brush is dipped into a small pool of paints on an easel, base colors only, and it swirls around and around and the colors mix. Blue is no longer blue, green no longer green. Red flows like blood and it is changed. They started as base colors but now the paintbrush is gliding gracefully along the canvas, coating the blank space with pastels. Soft pink, light blue. Shy and vague colors, like a skittish deer.

Art is life.

He paints with watercolors now, weak and running. You have to be careful to use watercolors, you have to be delicate, careful, as if you are defusing a ticking boom. Steady hand. Watchful eye.

He uses a small brush, the strands thin and dark brown. They aren't strong or bristly like the ones he usually uses. If he brushes his finger over the strands they bend for him. They're pliable, eager to please. Good for small details.

And now it's just a simple number #2 pencil, lead gliding over plain paper. On one sketch he lets the pencil glide lightly, strokes as light as the flap of a butterfly wing, hand gentle and subtle, his drawing light and invisible from a distance even though the paper is larger than his torso.

At the next paper in the huge notebook he presses hard down, until he starts fearing that his pencil will snap in two. It doesn't. The pencil strokes are thick and dark and broad. This is not like the gentle sketching that he had drawn upon the last page, this is dominating, confident, bold.

He breathes it, he eats it, drinks it, lives it. Art is everything to him.

One time he finger paints, like a child. Many people denounces such things as childish and crude but he loves it. His fingers are brushes, the paint is touching his skin, purple and white trickling down his fingers to tickle his palms and coat his wrists. His fingerprints cover the painting. In one corner he rakes his hand down, his fingers in a claw position as if he's about to swipe at an enemy, try to gouge their eyes out, take away the thing that connects them to the world. He treasures his hands, his fingers, what allows him to make art, but he loves his eyes more. He could teach himself to clench a brush between his teeth, sculpt clay with his toes, but without eyes he would never be able to see the results, never be able to see other art that was never made by him, never see the world and its beauty, its inspiration, its maddening perfection that he has to put on paper because that is the only way other people will pay attention to it.

It is as if the world is blind. They see an artwork made by nature and all they see is a deer, a waterfall, some leaves, nothing more. But he sees it. He sees the patterns and colors and the sheer perfection of it all and he just has to paint it. And when people who had seen the thing in real life and had merely scoffed see what he puts to paper they inexplicably admire it, appreciate finally only when it has been copied. People don't appreciate real life. They much prefer fantasy.

But he often paints abstract as well. He makes swirling spirals and scenery that couldn't possibly exist in real life. But he doesn't truly believe that these paintings are any faker, and less real. The scenery he paints is the skin, the surface, the beautiful face that exists but no one appreciates, and the abstract paintings is the blood underneath. The abstract is the bone that builds the beautiful features of the face, the veins under the skin.

Look underneath the underneath, Kakashi-sensei says. Kakashi-sensei is a wise man. He paints what is underneath and then he goes deeper. He believes he is painting the world, the soul of the planet. He may be a bit impaired in the feelings department but he is an artist at heart. He can be poetic. He can have a dramatic flair.

One night after drinking Sakura-san asks him to give her a tattoo. He doesn't realize at the time that she is too inebriated to be making such choices, because he is as drunk as her, if not more so. There are only hazy details from that night in his apartment as she lays on his couch and bites the pillow, and he makes the tattoo in highly unsanitary conditions. The next day there is a pounding headache in his head and outraged shrieks in his ear. But she gets over it surprisingly fast. Later he quietly thinks to himself it is because she realized how beautiful it is.

The tattoo is dark, no colors, and it is on the small of her back. It is simply a flurry of leaves swirling around as if someone had just used a jutsu to flash away. It is simple but there is something enchanting to it, the pattern and placement of the leaves a little bit too deliberate to be random, the leaves as small as they are a little too detailed to be done by an amateur. He has never given a tattoo before but when he sees it he is filled with pride, pride and happiness. That is permanent. That is never going away. It is beautiful and it is staying. Until the day she dies and her skin rots away and is eaten by time and maggots that tattoo is going to stick with her.

He never does give another tattoo though, maybe it has something to do with that she is his first. He is glad to mark her with his art because she is his close friend, he is utterly and completely sure of that. He misses many social cues and often says insulting things without meaning to, but even he realizes that she is the sort of friend that will protect you and stay by you until the bitter end. If he gave someone else, an acquaintance, a tattoo like that it would rob it of its meaning. Maybe if Naruto asked he would do it, but he doesn't, and so Sakura remains the only one in the world with his art, what he lived and breathed, etched onto her skin.

He thinks it's about then that she becomes truly special to him. She was already special to him of course, but now it is somehow… different. She starts to haunt his thoughts. He starts to paint her more often. And not just her surface, not just her face or her hair, but what is underneath. Underneath the underneath. He paints swirling red and green and pink paintings that look nothing like a human being. He draws human anatomy, raw exposed muscle and bleach white skulls, all her. He's never seen these parts of her, and he hopes he never does, but this is what he thinks she might look like naked, not just of clothes but of skin, of hair. He draws her naked in the truest sense of the word. He draws what he thinks her imagination might look like, her personality given flesh and face, and he can't seem to stop.

His face is usually a blank smile, but he must be acting different. He must be watching her closer in an obvious manner, he must be acting like he's walking on eggshells around her, striving as hard as he can to not accidentally offend her. She may have caught sight of some of his drawings, noticed that he was using more pink paint than usual, noticed the way he would sometimes stop halfway through a drawing and just stare at her intently, taking in the details he had taken in a million times before, before he turned back with determination glinting in his eyes.

She notices and he doesn't know how but somehow he wakes up one morning and there like a fallen angel is Sakura, in his bed, sleeping and peaceful, the sunlight pooling on her form that would be completely naked without the sheets covering her slender body highlighting everything that is her perfectly. The first thing he does is not panic, or try to recall the night. What he does is silently retrieve the sketchbook and pencil he keeps on his night table and he draws her. Her sleeping face is wonderful.

He draws her over and over again until her pink eyelashes flutter gently open and he stares into brilliant green eyes. He has never met someone with green eyes like her.

She smiles at him softly, gentle like pastels, and she leans over and pecks him on his lips before slipping out of bed. She covers herself with a sheet but as she walks to his bathroom the sheets doesn't cover her back, her tattoo, and he stares. It is as lovely as the last time he saw it.

After that the relationship progresses naturally. There is a reveal and there is shock and 'I knew it!' and his smile is real. After two years he slips a golden ring on her finger and she cries. After another two years her stomach swells and he cannot stop smiling for days, and it is real.

Art is life.

He looks down at his sleeping wife on the couch, and at the little girl with a mop of pink hair in her lap, drool dribbling down her little chin, and his smile is real, he can't remember the last time it was fake.

He realizes that people can be art as well.

* * *

In case you didn't notice this is Sai POV


	24. Seduction

WARNING: Sex and murder ahead. Also, some minor swearing.

**Seduction**

Their lips molded against each other, and his hands roved over her. He fondled and squeezed every part of her he could get to, hungrily biting and nipping his way down her neck now. She threw her head back with an entirely faked ecstatic moan, baring her neck to the man who didn't know he was holding in his hands an enemy kunoichi.

She wrapped one leg around his waist and made sure to pant heavily into his ear. She could not be less aroused. This man was an enemy. This man had killed her fellow soldiers. If her cover was blown he'd snap her neck, easy as that. He was stronger than her, faster than her. That was why she was doing this in such a roundabout way.

"Rei…" he moaned and started applying a hickey to her collarbone.

Her name wasn't Rei. It was Ino, _thanks. _She growled angrily but he mistook it for lust and grinded his erection into her thigh. She felt a wave of nausea overwhelm her and she buried her disgusted grimace in the man's shoulder.

"Darling," she sighed dreamily. She couldn't remember his name anymore. She could have possibly erased it from her memory.

Ino liked sex. She liked it a lot. And this man was good, very good. His hands were firm and kisses passionate, and he wasn't hard on the eyes either. But it was different. When she had sex she had it either with a boyfriend she knew and trusted or a one night stand she found charming and handsome. She knew this man, and he was handsome, but she found him about as charming as a mule and she would trust Orochimaru himself before she trusted this asshole.

Sex was a beautiful thing, a natural, wonderful thing. But it was all different when it was with someone you hated, someone you despised. She was more than ready to kill this man. It wasn't like rape, it was consensual, and she was the one who had urged on the event, even. But as he unbuttoned her blouse and unhooked her bra all she felt was bitter hate. No excitement, no pleasure, just bad feelings that had no business in the bedroom.

She tilted her head to the ceiling and glared viciously at it as he sucked at her nipple. As an afterthought she made sure to moan wantonly.

She looked down at him, schooling her face into an expression of sexual desire, and met his eyes. They were almond shaped, the lashes dark and unusually long for a man. But they were a dull discolored gray.

_Shikamaru's eyes are narrow, _a voice piped up in the back of her mind. _His eyelashes are short. His eyes are brown. _

Her smile felt stiff and transparent but judging by the smile she could feel him pressing against her breast he fell for it, the moron.

This was no time to be thinking about Shikamaru. Why was she thinking about Shikamaru? Why was she thinking about his eyes? He had boring eyes, just like his boring personality and boring face and boring everything.

_He's a genius, _the voice whispered. _He's brilliant, amazing, and incredible. _

Now she was just tooting the lazy bastard's horn.

And then the enemy yanked her skirt and underwear down to her ankles and all thoughts of Shikamaru flew away because to think of him as this _prick _did such intimate things to her that he had no right doing would just be wrong. Shikamaru may be lazy and worthless but even she held him in higher esteem than that.

The man does his best to fuck her into the mattress. She squeezes her eyes shut to hide the revulsion and she fists the blankets in her hands to stop herself from punching him. She moans like a well paid whore and at climax she screams. She isn't a screamer. When she orgasms she shudders silently and then goes limp. But now she hams it up to eleven. He releases and pulls out of her, rolling to the side, back to her as he peels the condom off his dick.

He ties it into a knot so that none of the semen will seep out and then carelessly flings it out into the darkness of the room. The lights aren't on, and the curtains are drawn, but Ino's night vision is excellent.

He mutters a sleepy "I love you." And she barely stops herself from hissing at him like an enraged snake.

She settles for biting her tongue and staring at his back intently. After five minutes his breathing is slow and steady, deep and relaxed. His muscles go limp and he rolls onto his back in his sleep. He is utterly out of it. Ino had made sure to exhaust him completely, and she was quite certain that he'd be able to sleep through anything short of an explosion now. The opportunity is perfect.

Silent as a church mouse, she slips out of the bed. She saunters over to her discarded clothes and her body aches. She kneels by her skirt, crumpled at the floor, scandalously short and tight to better catch his attention. She rummages in the pocket and withdraws a single steel senbon, new and strong.

She hides it behind her back as she walks with a careful tread over to the bed, trying for god's sake not to trip over something and ruin it all, make it all for nothing. She crawls onto the bed and eyes him with distaste.

He is handsome, true, and a good lover, true again, but he is a bastard. She remembers his name now, Haruto Suzuki. She bets that if she spoke it, the name would curdle on her tongue like sour milk. But she doesn't speak it, doesn't make a sound, this is too important. Haruto Suzuki was an infamous murderer. There was undeniable evidence of him raping each female enemy kunoichi he ever defeated if he had the time for it. He was a monster on the battlefield, ferocious and merciless, needlessly cruel. Once he went up against a young Genin of Konoha and when the corpse was found it was mutilated. It had been castrated and all of its fingernails were missing, the fingers themselves broken and twisted, the teeth gone to reveal bloody gums and almost all of the bones in his body broken. On further inspection there had been found several rocks in the twelve year old child's stomach, forced down his throat no doubt. There was evidence of him having tried to flee and then being hunted down by Haruto Suzuki. The child hadn't even been on a mission related to the man, it was an escort mission. But the boy had been separated from his group as he went hunting for twigs for his team's campfire and the man had come upon the Genin and had his wicked way with him.

Written on the boy's back, written with a kunai, the kanji bloody wounds on the corpse, it said: _He cried like a bitch. Love, Haruto~_

Bile rose in her throat as she reflected on the fact that she had just had sex with this monster.

She crawls closer to him still, and then she slowly lifts her leg so that she is above him, his sleeping head between her hands, her shuddering breath puffing into his face.

For one heart stopping second his eyes flutter open.

He looks groggily up at her and smiles dopily. "Rei?"

"Time for round two." She giggled and Haruto laughed with her.

It was then that she plunged the senbon still clutched in her right hand into his neck. The tip protruded from the other side.

His eyes flew wide open and he jerked spastically. She let go of the senbon and sat up and then down so that she was straddling his lap, his groin her pillow. She made sure to fall down on it hard.

He uttered a croaking sound, like a strangled toad, and dark crimson bubbled up from his lips. It trickled from his neck wound and his mouth.

She did not smile; she did not laugh, glare, or cry. She watched him silently; her face utterly unreadable, and eventually he stopped struggling.

She got off the bed, picked up her clothes, clothed, and threw Haruto a final look. He was spread-eagled on the mattress, soaking the pillow underneath him red.

She walked out of his apartment and was back at Konoha by sunrise. The first thing she did was take a long scalding shower.


	25. Sleep

**Sleep**

The first time he slept without Shukaku it was terrifying. He had slept before, but only briefly, as everyone in his vicinity would try to wake him up like their life depended upon it. Which was actually true.

Before when he fell asleep not only would he turn into a murderous monster, but his personality would vanish. The demon inside him, Shukaku, would drain him of the very essence of his being. It was even more horrifying that it sounded.

The first time he'd slept, and the times had been few and far in between, it had lasted for five whole minutes before the ninja of his village had figured out how to wake him. It had been a regular day, siblings flinching at his every movement at the dinner table as he ate, two assassination attempts before afternoon had come, and everyone giving him a wide berth as usual, crossing the street to avoid him.

He had gone to the swing set and looked up at the blue sky. Eventually two birds appeared far above, circling in the air. He had wondered idly if his sand could reach and crush them, before dismissing the answer as obvious. His Mother's killing abilities were unmatched by all.

His teal eyes fixed on their hypnotic circling far up in the sky. It wasn't as if he had anything better to do. He craned his neck and stared. They went around and around and around… over and over again, gliding gracefully through the air high, high up. After awhile of this, maybe a few hours, his eyelids started feeling heavier and heavier, a novel feeling, and his head felt as if someone had stuffed it full with cotton. Sound muted and a low endless nuzzling noise appeared. He swayed on his seat in the swing. He didn't know what it was like to fall asleep; he didn't know that this was what he should be avoiding.

He didn't know when it happened, but one moment he was awake and the next someone was shaking his shoulder, and all noise felt far away. And then there was a piercing shrill scream of horror right next to his ear and his eyes snapped open. A man was kneeling next to him, battered and bruised, wide eyes fixed on the bleeding stump where his hand had once been. Grains of sand floated back into his gourd. He should have known better than to touch a monster.

He sat up and surveyed his surroundings. It was chaos. There were dead bodies everywhere, some crushed (sandcoffin) some speared (by sand structures hard as rock, seemingly with a sentience of their own) and some with snapped necks and broken bones (the hands of a giant made of thousands upon millions of miniscule grains of sand reddened by a hundred assasins blood throwing attackers and protectors alike against any hard surface nearby, only intent on protecting one being, one merciless being who lived only for himself, one being who was currently far gone, mind asleep and body drooling and laughing maniacally).

Five minutes had passed since he'd fallen asleep.

For weeks after he'd woken up, for months, he'd felt numb. Despite the sweltering heat of the desert he had always felt cold. He'd dressed in the boiling days as if it was the freezing nights, bundled up in scarves and long thick sleeves that left him sweating yet shivering. But the worst was that he felt numb. His thoughts took a little longer to process, his gaze a little deader.

That wasn't all though. During those months as he dealt with the fact that a tiny part of him would be gone forever the villagers were more terrified of him than ever. When he walked through the streets people actually dropped what they were holding and ran. People actually screamed at the sight of him. Children actually started crying. The fear and hatred was stronger than ever.

The flow of constant assassins, of cannon fodder, of food for his Mother, briefly ceased. His Mother didn't mind though. She was more than full from their recent buffet. And it started up again soon enough anyway, stronger than ever. He'd kill sometimes as many as ten men in one day. He didn't see his siblings for a few months, and when they saw him again they froze like dears, wild panic shining in the white of their eyes. He had stared at them, taken them in, for ten whole minutes, as they just stood there, hoping desperately not to be killed, before turning away without a word. As he had walked out of the door he had heard two sets of knees hit the floor and gasping sobs.

That was years ago.

The villagers didn't scream at the sight of him anymore. His siblings didn't cry after he gave them an unnerving look. Assassins didn't attack.

Mother was gone.

The Akatsuki had taken her. Which was good. Of course it was good. That hadn't been his Mother. That had been the Shukaku, an insane demon. It had constantly howled in his mind for blood, never left him alone. It had been a nightmare. Good riddance.

But something within him ached at the loss of his only mother figure in life, even if it had been a monstrous abomination.

Never matter.

The village loved him. He was alive. Naruto was his friend. His siblings were happy to be his family. That was all that mattered. That was all.

And then he had fallen asleep.

There was no danger to sleeping no. The Shukaku wasn't there to go on a murderous rampage in his body anymore. His personality wasn't going to be obliterated. And so one day without meaning to, he slept.

He had been sitting on a couch, and it had been soft, the windows open to catch the deliciously cool breeze. It had felt good blowing upon his face and he had closed his eyes and leaned back and enjoyed it.

And the next thing he knew he was screaming.

That cotton feeling had come back, that buzzing. What he should have been looking out for.

He remembered only flashes, but the nightmare had been dark and red cold and Mother had been there with him, her flesh sand, her mind murder, her blood his, singing through his veins, demanding him to feed her, as was only proper for a good son to do for his beloved Mother who had given him life and existence. Murder was existence. Selfishness was life.

When he had woke up a scream so frantic and panicked had been ripping out of his throat that it was in fact silent. It had torn at his throat and he was soon left gasping, tears sliding down his face along with his cold sweat. He had expected the cold num feeling to come, for the fact that a little piece of him was gone forever again, he waited for the horrified screams and corpses that he had caused, waited for the hatred and fear of the villagers, the assassins, the loneliness, the constant mental scream for blood.

It didn't come but that didn't make him feel any better.

In a way sleeping without Shukaku was worse than sleeping with him, but only in a way. With Shukaku his sleep had been deep and dreamless, with Shukaku his fear and dawning horror was absent as everything he was had just depleted, as his emotions were muffled, as his personality had a whole new set of cracks to deal with. It was easier to take death in stride when you were slowly crumbling apart.

He had made careful sure not to sleep from then on. It didn't matter that he could, didn't matter that it wouldn't hurt anyone. He shouldn't expect to be able to sleep without nightmares with his past being what it was.

* * *

Gaara POV. Please review!


	26. Remember

**Remember**

There are little things strewn throughout his apartment that he can't remember putting there, and things that ought to be there that aren't, though he can't remember what should be filling those empty spaces. Of course, his apartment had always been messy. As cramped as it was he'd managed to stuff it full with stacks of magazines he didn't read, blank scrolls for homework he hadn't done, empty ramen cups, and worn dirty clothes lying in orange little heaps over every available surface among countless of other useless little trinkets he's picked up through the years.

One day in a drawer in his desk he finds a hitai-ate. There is a horizontal line cut into the metal plate, marring the symbol of his Village. It isn't his. The only forehead protector he has ever had was the one Iruka-sensei had given him. The dark blue cloth of this scarred hitai-ate is not as soft and worn, and besides the slash across the symbol representing Konoha the metal plate is new and shiny, unlike his, which is dulled with age. He likes his hitai-ate, likes the way the cloth is going threadbare and how sunlight doesn't bounce off it. It had been Iruka-sensei's, and so he treasures it.

He looks at the hitai-ate for a long time before putting it back in the drawer.

One day when on a rare whim he cleans his night table of its clutter underneath all of the general knickknacks he finds a framed picture. It is the one of his Team, of course, how could he forget that? Sakura-chan is standing in the middle, hair long (and why did she cut it again? He knows it was because of something that happened during the Chunin Exams but for some reason those memories is hazy. Lots of things in his mind are hazy. He can barely remember his first C mission. The day he and Sakura-chan are introduced to Kakashi-sensei is a blur) and smile bright, Kakashi-sensei standing behind her, his mask stretching across his smile. One of his hands was ruffling his blond hair. In the picture he was glaring to the side, in Sakura-chan's direction, but he is glaring past her, that is visible. But where his glare is directed someone has torn a corner out of the picture. Kakashi-sensei's other hand is ruffling someone else's hair but the tear has taken away that person completely.

When had that happened? Who was he glaring at? Whose hair was Kakashi-sensei ruffling?

He didn't know.

When he meets up each day with his Team (just him, Sakura-chan, and Kakashi-sensei. It is odd to have only two Genin on your Team, he knows, but he can't remember why there weren't three of them. But there must be a reasonable explanation) there feels like there is something missing. Sakura-chan smiles at him, almost nervously, and he wonders if she's always been like this around him, so careful and quietly pitying. Hadn't she been angrier at him before? Hadn't there been more outbursts? More punching? More yelling? Less uncomfortable smiles and sad eyes? He can't remember. It's all a blur.

Kakashi-sensei will act normal though, yet there is still something off about him, something tense, something fake, as if he's an actor with stage-fright, rattling of his lines desperately as the lights glare into his eyes and the audience looks on.

And there is something missing. But he can't put his finger on it. Because it's all a blur.

Iruka-sensei is like Kakashi-sensei too, all tense shoulders and too loud laughter and a shifty guilty lying look to his eyes.

When he tells him stories about the day's missions there feels like there is something missing. There is something he ought to be complaining about that isn't how boring the missions are, how degrading and stupid they are. There feels like there ought to be something (someone) else to complain about.

It's all a blur.

When he sleeps he has strange vague dreams about far-off figures with dark hair and pale skin. Whoever it is he's just far away enough in the darkness that he can't make out his face, can't make out whatever that symbol on his back is. But whoever it is the sight of him makes something within him ache horribly and after awhile he grows to hate sleeping and draws out the day for as long as he can, makes up excuses to keep him away from the bed and keep his eyes open because every time he closed them the person in the distance would flash before his eyes and it would feel like someone had just sucker punched him in the gut.

After a few months the aching just grows and grows, like a decaying tooth but worse, and he starts to wonder where his motivation had gone. He remembers having drive, ambition, freaking spirit. Somewhere along the way that vanished. He dreams about becoming the Hokage though. Yet that isn't the same. He dreams about becoming Hokage with a fevered urgency, but…

He remembers having something he was willing to die for.

He doesn't know what (who) that was but for something reason it's (he's) gone now.

He knows that these memory gaps are definitely not good, not good at all, he could have some sort of serious head injury, but he doesn't go to the hospital (they'd just throw him out on his ass and call him a Demon anyway) because he once broached the subject with Sakura-chan. She had looked at him with wide eyes, pupils swimming in two pools of brilliant green, face pale and visage stricken, not even breathing. And then the next moment she had broken out into uncontrollable sobs, her face a miserable grimace as hot tears spilled down her face.

He had not dared bring it up once ever since.

His friends knew something, Kakashi-sensei, Sakura-chan, and Iruka-sensei _knew _something and he didn't. They knew why there was a hitai-ate with a scar in his drawer, they knew why his picture was torn, why his dreams were nightmares, his memory a blur, and his heart a constant ache.

He can't though. He can't remember ever having something to complain about (my rival), something to give him motivation (my best friend), and something to die for (my precious person). He can't remember and it aches.

(Sasuke)

* * *

Okay, imagine that after Sasuke defects Danzo decides it would be for the better if the Jinchuurki didn't have fond memories of a traitor, and so using his political power and ROOT he gets Naruto's memory wiped and forces a law for everyone not to speak of the Uchiha in Naruto's presence.


	27. Color

**Color**

Color cannot exist in war. In Iruka's day to day life there is the bright green of the leaves his Village is named after, the cheerful yellow of the sun, the brilliant blue of the sky, and civilians crowding the markets, wearing kimonos as colorful and varied as rainbows, patterns snaking along the cloth of their blouses and shirts like the arms of a lover curling around your chest from behind, breath tickling your ear and lips brushing your neck.

There is none of that in war. The leaves are still there but they look dull and dead. The sun is still there but it looks distant and cold like in the harshest of winters. The sky is still there but the shade of blue is that of a shirt that's been washed too many times throughout the years, the color having been sapped to something weak and depressing. The civilians are there too, but their pretty patterns and colors are covered up by drying blood and dust and dirt that's been kicked up from the ground as the shinobi fly around faster than the naked eye could see.

The second first blood is spilled it's like the world is suddenly coated in grime.

He can see out of the corner of his eye Sai hastily painting something onto a scroll, and he knows it is just black ink, no color, just more darkness to dim the world as lives are snuffed out like candles all around him.

He drives a kunai into a man's eye and a scream rips out of his throat. While the man is too shocked and pained to react he snaps his neck. Blood runs from the punctured eye like red tears. Iruka doesn't think blood counts as a color. It is a gruesome color, not bright but tacky, not strong but pungent, not vibrant but deadly.

A shuriken nicks his cheek as he snaps his head to the side just in time. He flips through the air and the familiar whooshing sound of shurikens whistling through the wind brushes past his ear. He absently throws a kunai in the direction the shurikens came from, not really trying to hit target. There are far too many enemies to concentrate on everyone that attacks him. People are randomly lashing out at every person not wearing a hitai-ate of their Village that pass them. Even if he doesn't look there is a good chance that his kunai might hit the person who tried to kill him. Or maybe someone else. Maybe a Konoha ninja. But that is a risk you have to take when there is war.

It feels like one of those black and white movies he sometimes watches on that one channel during Saturdays, it all feels so unreal. Like a movie. That's the way to fight a war. Distance yourself. Disconnect. It helps you not to break, not to fall into a million little pieces never to be picked up again. This isn't real. This is just some black and white movie on an obscure channel that some shmuck is watching on his precious Saturday to try and relax and stop thinking about grading papers and precious people off on dangerous missions. You are an actor. He is and actor. She is an actor. That corpse is an actor.

_Well I don't know about the plot, _Iruka thinks. _But the acting is the most impressive I've ever seen. The effects too!_

He ducks and dodges, weaving through enemy and ally alike, still alive only because of dumb luck, and a woman dies in front of him, blood spilling out of her mouth and kunais riddling her body, and all Iruka can think is _Wow, she's good. You'd think she was really dying!_

There is no color so it is not life; there is only war so it is only fantasy.

A wayward shuriken lodges itself into his shoulder and he pulls it out, chucking it at the nearest enemy he could see. A butterfly flutters past his head and it looks out of place, what business did a butterfly have fluttering about in a warzone? But its wings are monochrome and it looks fake and fragile so he dismisses it. It wasn't real.

Only fantasy.

* * *

Not my longest chapter, but then again this is just supposed to be a drabble series so you really shouldn't be expecting much. Please review!


	28. Ridiculous

**Ridiculous**

Her nails skim lightly over the skin of his back, trailing gently downwards the planes and relaxed muscles, leaving behind slightly tingling skin in their wake. It's ridiculous, Neji thinks, how her every touch affects him even after they've had sex. Just ridiculous.

He can feel the corners of Tenten's mouth quirk upwards against his shoulder in a soft smile and it burns in a good way, like expensive sake gliding down your throat after a long day.

The afterglow is beautiful, the sheets a tangled twisted mess around their entwined bodies, his face pressed into the top of her head, her brown hair loose. She smells of steel and sweat, a surprisingly pleasant scent. It's probably because it's her. She has an aura, something about her that reaches out and makes everything better. Like she did with him. She's good for him.

She hums contently and the vibrations seep through the bones of his shoulder and arm to tingle like static electricity just waiting to be set off on the tip of his fingers. He feels tired yet indestructible at once.

"We should get married." He says offhandedly, not even meaning to, not even realizing what he'd just said before his teammate and lover before so relaxed and limp in his hold suddenly tensed up in his arms, muscles taught and ready like piano wire. He winced.

Some people spooked off their significant other by bringing out the 'I love you' too soon. Neji proposed the second they'd consummated their new relationship. Way to go, Neji. Way to go.

But then instead of leaping up and running with her clothes in her arms she relaxes again just as abruptly as she'd tensed, in fact she relaxes even more than before. She melts in his arms like hot butter, nuzzling the alcove of his neck lovingly.

"Yes," she says simply, happily and he feels dizzy, disbelieving, but he doesn't let that show, he's a Hyuuga, even if it's just Branch. It doesn't matter though. She's got her ear pressed against his chest now and can clearly feel its rapid beat, her hand encircling his wrist far too casually for it to be accidental, sensing his thunderous pulse. She knows him too well.

"I love you." She says and now as he'd before felt her smile pressed against his shoulder than rather seeing it he now hears it in her voice, bright and real.

"I love you too." He says.

He'd proposed before confessing. Ridiculous. Tenten didn't seem to mind though, and in the end that was all that mattered. They could be ridiculous together.

* * *

Pure, plotless fluff, the best kind. I apologize for the shortness, but again, drabbles people. Drabbles.


	29. Hug

**Hug**

Naruto wants to hug him. He wants to hug him so tightly that his ribs will creak and his lungs will burn, he wants to hug him until his arms start to ache and Sasuke begins to get lightheaded. But Sasuke's just one big bruise, deathly pale and deathly still in his hospital bed. Naruto's hurt him too much already with his love, there's no sense in hurting him more when he's already here, already in this bed, in this hospital, in this Village. In their home.

_I will stop you even if I have to break every bone in your body!_

The words ring hollowly in his head and the electrocardiograph bleeps weakly in response to Sasuke's fluttering heartbeats.

He always holds his word.

XXX

They're not children anymore. They're young adults now, and everything and everyone is less lenient with them. Naruto hadn't realized how easy people went on them just because their voices hadn't cracked yet before they stopped. They are young adults now. They are expected to clean their own messes now, to deal with the consequences of their mischief. Naruto understood that. Fair was fair. But as soon as Sasuke's name was mentioned he put his foot down.

On the Council member's face, that is.

The ANBU are there in a flash, picking him bodily up and carrying him screeching and swearing out of the room as the Council watch on with gaping mouths and wide eyes. Tsunade just shakes her head and pinches the bridge of her nose as if she'd known that this was the way the meeting would have gone eventually the entire time. She probably had.

"DON'T YOU DARE!" he shrieks on the top of his lungs, his voice shrill and rough against the inside of his throat. "IF YOU PRICKS TOUCH ONE HAIR ON THE BASTARD'S HEAD I'LL-"

Kakashi-sensei makes his for once timely arrival by smacking his hand over Naruto's mouth before any actual official threats can be made. But they all know what he was going to say. They stare at him disbelief and –Naruto is pleased to see- more than just a hint of real fear. Good. If there was one thing that the harsh life of a ninja had taught him (against his will, and oh so slowly, he can be a slow learner when he doesn't like the lesson) it was that fear was a strong motivator. Let them be scared. Let them remember all the things he'd done, all the seemingly impossible heroic deeds, what he had done for them and what he could do against them.

If Naruto Uzumaki decided that you had to go you were screwed.

Kakashi-sensei comes up with an outrageous lie as for why he's late, somehow convinces the ANBU to put him down, and slowly guides Naruto out of the room, hand tight on his shoulder and tension in the room heavy.

His every left step leaves behind a track of bright red blood.

XXX

Naruto's visited him each day since he came (was forced) back home (but will it ever be that for him?). The Council has not locked Sasuke inside some dark dank cell deep underground where the light of day never reached and such things as visiting hours didn't exist. He grins. Apparently just a little nosebleed and some yelling really can be persuasive. And Granny Tsunade said that he wouldn't survive the politics of his dream job. Nonsense. All they needed was a little slap on the wrist (foot to the face) and a word of chastisement (shrieked threats of bodily harm) and all was fine as rain.

Naruto had a bright political future as the sixth Hokage in front of him.

Sasuke wasn't quite as pale now, a little closer to his normal pallor than that ominous snow white shade, as if his skin were fragile rice paper and the lightest touch could tear him, let the ink blood flow and drain him. He doesn't look quite as close to the threshold of death any longer.

_(break every bone)_

They still had him drugged up; he was still unconscious in morphine induced bliss. And so it was without fear of losing his arm that he reached out and took Sasuke's hand in both of his. He doesn't entwine their fingers. All ten of them were in splints.

XXX

The scent of flowers is overwhelming, almost cloying, and it is with watering eyes that he spots Ino watering some begonias.

"Ah, Ino!"

She turns around curiously and cocks her head at him like a confused puppy. The sight makes Naruto grin.

"Naruto-kun?"

He smiles and walks up to her. "Hey, Ino. Ah, I-" the sheer embarrassing idiocy of what he's doing suddenly doing washes over him and regret hits him like a ton of bricks. But it's too late now. Gama-chan is a heavy bulge in his pocket and Ino's gaze bores into him. It's too late to turn around now.

"I… I'd like some… flowers." His words are a hurried rush, as if he's ripping off a bandage. His face burns.

She blinks at him, and then – she smirks coyly and Naruto knows he's fucked.

"Flowers, eh?" she questions knowingly and sets the watering can down, smirk still in place and devious blue eyes sparkling.

Naruto is so very, very fucked.

"And who would they be for?"

Smirk, hair toss, suggestive wink.

He blushes.

"A – a friend. In the hospital. Training accident."

No one but Sakura-chan, Kakashi-sensei, Sai, Yamato-sensei, Granny Tsunade, the ANBU, and a heck load of politicians know about Sasuke being back. It's not supposed to be common knowledge. There'd probably be a riot otherwise about setting the bastard's head on a pike. And if that happened everyone knows that Naruto would be growing some tails pretty fucking fast.

Naruto wonders sometimes if he's too dependent on Sasuke, maybe even a tad wee obsessed. But he quickly dismissed the notion as preposterous and concentrates on his goal of buying the bastard flowers like he's a love stricken girl or something before spending the day next to his drug induced comatose form until the nurse politely tells him to get the hell out of their hospital, visiting hours was long ago and they'd have his ass arrested if he didn't get his shit straight.

Obsessed. Bah, humbug.

She giggles and titters and teases and about one hellish half hour later he stumbles out of the shop dazed and confused, holding a bouquet that somehow, God knows how, mixes some bright orange, sky blue, dark blue, and onyx flowers together in quite an artistic way that was pleasing to the eye if you weren't too busy wondering how the heck that was even possible.

He's halfway to the hospital when he realizes that it's his and Sasuke's favorite colors and eye colors mixed together. He despairs over how he'll ever become Hokage if he can't even keep a secret, even if he doesn't mention a bloody word about said secret.

Then again, Ino is technically a mind reader. Of sorts.

XXX

His wrists are chained to the bed frame and he is higher than a bloody kite but for the first time in nearly a month he has been allowed consciousness and Naruto can't get enough of staring into those eyes that are finally open again like some other cheesy school girl with a crush. The fact that the eyes are clouded over and confused and dazed and unaware of where he was or what day it was did actually put a bit of a damper on things, but he'll bring the matter up with the Council later. In other words he was going to glare and crack his knuckles and wait until either the Council gave in or Granny Tsunade became so overcome with rage that she decided to hell with manners and that shit and decked him right then and there in front of the Council and ANBU and God and all to see, Hokage pride be damned.

The flowers he bought are standing in a vase on a night table next to the bed, only a day old.

"Dobe," he slurs like some common drunkard but he is anything but.

"Bastard," he replies with a smile so wide it hurts his cheeks, forces his eyes to squeeze shut, all his pearly whites exposed for the world to see.

Sasuke soon falls asleep later but Naruto doesn't mind. A lot.

XXX

The next time the bed is empty, the sheet tucked into neat hospital corners. There are five visible ANBU's. They both know there are more.

There aren't shouted accusations or tearful hugs or heart wrenching apologies. Instead, they play Go.

He's never played it before himself, but there's nothing else in the room, and Sasuke explains the rules with an unusual patience that frightens Naruto for a moment before Sasuke huffs, calls him a helpless moron, and chucks a Go piece at him (all the ANBU tense at the "attack", amateurs). Naruto laughs with relief, glad that nothing is different, before he retaliates by throwing one of Sasuke's black Go pieces back at him.

Some friends have pillow fights, or maybe even food fights. Naruto Uzumaki and Sasuke Uchiha chuck Go pieces at each other until all of the ANBU are nervously fingering their weapons. They ignore them in favor of shouting insults at each other as they weave and dodge and throw. They both know they could take all of the ninja in the room easily, one of them hospitalized or no, and the ANBU know it too, which just makes them more nervous. Feh. Amateurs.

When he walks out of the room hours later covered in bruises he glances over his shoulder to see Sasuke smiling softly at the bouquet besides him, something he was obviously not meant to see. He treasures the memory.

XXX

Sasuke is out and free now, a legal citizen of Konoha. It took more than just a few thinly veiled threats and teeth bared in a snarl, but it's finally happened.

The first time Sasuke's house if egged, Naruto is enraged beyond words and knows that if Sakura and Sai hadn't been there he just might have killed the brats.

Obsessed, who? Him? Humbug.

After awhile though it becomes the norm, the expected, and Naruto bitterly thinks that it never should have. He understand that the citizens of Konoha wouldn't understand themselves, wouldn't see and think and know, wouldn't realize that Sasuke was a victim as well, that his betrayal was not out of ill will but of an unhealthy obsession that had been given to him by pure unlucky circumstances, of no fault of his own.

Naruto's always there to help Sasuke clean up. And maybe curse at the brats to get off their damned property before they got a kunai shoved up the ass. His throat feels tight when Sasuke doesn't protest at "their".

XXX

His fingers trail down his arms, his shoulders, his back. Sasuke isn't a ninja anymore. Naruto doubts that any amount of threatening could make the Council cave on this decision. Sasuke is not a ninja anymore, he is not allowed. He'll never admit to agreeing. Never. Just the mere thought of agreeing to anything the Council said made his skin crawl. He, of course, agreed on this decision for completely different reasons though. The Council feared that Sasuke would betray them again, Naruto feared for Sasuke's life. Of course he knew that Sasuke could take care of himself, he was an exceptionally strong, fast, and clever ninja (not that he'd ever admit it). He wouldn't let himself be killed just like that. But things happened. The life of a ninja was a dangerous one. And Naruto didn't really know what he'd do if Sasuke died. Something big at least. Something loud. Something bad.

_(Obsessed, who? Him? Bah, humbug)_

Sasuke's grown sloppy, but that's good. Naruto knows that's a terribly selfish thing to think but the weaker Sasuke is the less likely it will be that he'll jump into battle one day.

Sasuke doesn't train, he's not allowed to. He doesn't practice his jutsu or his kata, he's not allowed to. No ninja activity. Naruto knows he'd still be able to kill someone far above his rank easily though, even after such a long time without exercise.

Sasuke doesn't notice know, slumped over his desk, cheek resting on a page in his book, as Naruto lets his hand glide gently, carefully down his friends shoulders and arms, down his back. He doesn't touch any creepy places, like his face, like his chest, his ass, his crotch. He just touches places where any close friends are allowed to casually do so without fearing retribution or awkwardness.

In the old days Sasuke would have woken up the second Naruto walked into the room, he wouldn't have fallen asleep in the first place in fact. But Sasuke has grown sloppy and Naruto trails the scars along his bare arms. He'd inflicted some of those. He'd made white bone stick in jagged splinters out of this pale skin. He'd done it out of love. He'd done it to bring him home. He'd done it because he'd missed Sasuke.

But he can't help the heavy sick weight that settles in the bottom of his stomach every time he touches these scars. It's not the first time he's done this. He refuses to acknowledge that what he's doing is creepy or in any way stalker-ish.

And when he gently strokes Sasuke's cheek he chooses to forget how he'd thought to himself that as long as he avoided places like the face he wasn't being creepy. He wasn't being creepy. He was just tracing a small almost invisible nick on his cheek bone. That was all.

XXX

"Morning," Sasuke grumbles not unkindly.

Naruto's been awake for a long time now, just staring silently at Sasuke. Sasuke doesn't need to know this though. And Naruto doesn't need to acknowledge that this is creepy in any way whatsoever.

He is surrounded by Sasuke. His scent is strong on his sheets, covering him and bunching up around his feet. There are dark blue bruises on his collar bone and neck, and that is all Sasuke. He imagines that when he traces the roof of his mouth with his tongue he can still taste Sasuke, and Sasuke himself is right there, pressed up against him from bare hip to naked chest.

Naruto has traced every scar on his body, every old faded scar, and it is depressing yet somehow horribly good that over half of them are all because of him, Naruto. This was where he'd stabbed him with a kunai in the thigh. This was where he'd raked his unusually long nails (claws) down Sasuke's back. This was where he'd bitten him with his teeth (fangs) on his shoulder. This was where his shuriken had lodged into Sasuke's leg. Last night he'd trailed them all. With his fingers, his eyes, his tongue. It had been weirdly romantic.

Sasuke is bathed in sunlight filtering through his bedroom window and Naruto is all of a sudden so happy that he is here, with him, in their home, and not off somewhere outside of Konoha, his face plastered in bingo books and living his life on the run.

Sasuke may be one big bruise now, and it may be Naruto's fault yet again, and he may have inflicted these pains on him out of love. But this time it hasn't gone too far because Sasuke didn't try to run and deny it, didn't try to fight back, just lied back and enjoyed the ride, and so it hasn't gone too far. There are no broken bones this time, no blood, no drugs, any hospital, any electrocardiograph, or horrible, horrible guilt. This time it was good.

And so he reaches out and hugs him. He hugs him so tightly that Sasuke's ribs creak and lungs burn and Naruto's arms ache and Sasuke begins to feel lightheaded. When he finally lets go Sasuke hits him over the head, calls him a dobe, and kisses him long and slow and sweet on the lips.

And he hugs the bastard again just because he can.

* * *

Something to make up for the last short chapter! Please review!


	30. Drunkards

**Brother**

The rustling of the leaves sounded like distant, thunderous applause. Temari found it hardly appropriate.

The sand, as if carried by the wind that rustled the leaves, almost gently unwrapped from the ninjas and snaked its way through the air back into her little brother's gourd. She absently noticed that yet again the sand was now a slightly darker shade of red. She'd couldn't remember it ever looking like normal sand.

The corpses fell inelegantly down to the ground with dull thuds, their eyes wide with terror and rolled up into their heads so that all could be seen was white, their mouths wide and gaping, not a single grain of sand left where previously it had been blocking their airways, working its way down their throats, seeing how far it could go before they stopped breathing, filling their lungs, brushing against their hearts. It wasn't the lack of air that had killed them though. It never was.

Gaara closed his blood spattered umbrella and turned away without a word. Kankuro, silly Kankuro who honestly thought cheesy pickup lines worked on pretty girls far out of his league, foolish Kankuro who liked old movies and retro video games, Kankuro who was almost normal and deserved a normal family and a normal life, Kankuro followed his little brother, pale and shaky. She did as well.

She crossed her arms across her chest, defending herself that it was unusually cold here. The ninja here in Leaf all walked around like it was the hottest place on earth but with every passing breeze she shuddered. That was what happened to you when you grew up in a dessert. She wasn't shaking because of her little brother, not because of Gaara. She wasn't.

The whisper of sand slipping out of the opening of the gourd was heard before the whistling of the kunai. It was terrifying, really, how quick to react that sand was. That horrible, horrible sand.

It happened fast. All of a sudden Temari saw that red sand shoot for her and she froze in mind numbing terror because oh god it was finally going to happen, she always knew this day would come, she wondered what she'd done right now right this day in right that moment to deserve this though. But then again, Gaara didn't need a reason to kill her. The voice in his head didn't need a reason to scream for blood. She didn't try to run. She knew that if Gaara wanted someone dead they'd be a blood soaked broken carcass on the ground before you could say "Mother".

But instead of wrapping its lethal crush around her the sand dove behind her and formed a barrier over her head, and she wondered for one confused split second if Gaara wanted to give her some shade for some reason, a little sand umbrella to protect her from this cold Leaf sun. Which was just absurd.

And then she heard the familiar sound of a kunai impacting with the sand hovering over her head, her exposed neck, and she knew. Of course, it was obvious. She was so stupid, why hadn't she realized? There had only been two shinobi back there. There was still one more left.

She spun around, hand flying to her fan as the sand shot back to Gaara. There stood a kunoichi wearing the same headband as the two shinobi Gaara had just killed, pupils pin pricks, breath shuddering, hand on her katana a death grip. She must have just found her dead teammates.

"How dare-" the kunoichi whispered, eyes wide and unblinking, before giving up on speech and just lunging.

Temari wondered why the kunoichi was just concentrating on her. She hadn't even been the one to kill the ninjas. Oh well, grieving people were known to be unreasonable and temporarily crazy after all.

She snapped her fan out at the same time as Kankuro threw a kunai at the girl. The kunoichi dodged and Temari took the advantage to aim a blast of wind at her. The kunoichi staggered, taken by surprise, and it was then that Gaara decided enough was enough, the pathetic people were clearly taking too long dealing with this useless pest, and the sand came out to play, to "feed".

It whirled around the kunoichi like a small whirlwind and then just snapped up, like a whip lying lazily at your side before you snapped it fast and sharp. The struggling kunoichi let out a shrill scream of fear before the sand covered her moth, went inside it, working its way down her throat, seeing how far it could go before she stopped breathing, filling her lungs, brushing up against her heart. But they never died from lack of air. They never did.

Gaara brought up his hand, fingers hooked in a claw gesture, palm turned up towards the sky. And then he closed it quickly, making a fist. Temari quickly hid behind her fan and Gaara snapped open his umbrella just in time, Kankuro himself being out of range of the blood spatter.

The sand let go, the corpse fell, the sand went back to Gaara, Gaara closed his umbrella. He walked off without a word. Kankuro followed, pale and shaky, after destroying the kunoichi's Heaven scroll, of course. The leaves rustled in applause. She found it hardly appropriate.

He really was a monster, she thought. He truly was. There wasn't a single redeeming quality to him.

Temari couldn't stop thinking about why Gaara had blocked that kunai heading for her neck for the rest of the week.


	31. Brother

**Brother**

The rustling of the leaves sounded like distant, thunderous applause. Temari found it hardly appropriate.

The sand, as if carried by the wind that rustled the leaves, almost gently unwrapped from the ninjas and snaked its way through the air back into her little brother's gourd. She absently noticed that yet again the sand was now a slightly darker shade of red. She'd couldn't remember it ever looking like normal sand.

The corpses fell inelegantly down to the ground with dull thuds, their eyes wide with terror and rolled up into their heads so that all could be seen was white, their mouths wide and gaping, not a single grain of sand left where previously it had been blocking their airways, working its way down their throats, seeing how far it could go before they stopped breathing, filling their lungs, brushing against their hearts. It wasn't the lack of air that had killed them though. It never was.

Gaara closed his blood spattered umbrella and turned away without a word. Kankuro, silly Kankuro who honestly thought cheesy pickup lines worked on pretty girls far out of his league, foolish Kankuro who liked old movies and retro video games, Kankuro who was almost normal and deserved a normal family and a normal life, Kankuro followed his little brother, pale and shaky. She did as well.

She crossed her arms across her chest, defending herself that it was unusually cold here. The ninja here in Leaf all walked around like it was the hottest place on earth but with every passing breeze she shuddered. That was what happened to you when you grew up in a dessert. She wasn't shaking because of her little brother, not because of Gaara. She wasn't.

The whisper of sand slipping out of the opening of the gourd was heard before the whistling of the kunai. It was terrifying, really, how quick to react that sand was. That horrible, horrible sand.

It happened fast. All of a sudden Temari saw that red sand shoot for her and she froze in mind numbing terror because oh god it was finally going to happen, she always knew this day would come, she wondered what she'd done right now right this day in right that moment to deserve this though. But then again, Gaara didn't need a reason to kill her. The voice in his head didn't need a reason to scream for blood. She didn't try to run. She knew that if Gaara wanted someone dead they'd be a blood soaked broken carcass on the ground before you could say "Mother".

But instead of wrapping its lethal crush around her the sand dove behind her and formed a barrier over her head, and she wondered for one confused split second if Gaara wanted to give her some shade for some reason, a little sand umbrella to protect her from this cold Leaf sun. Which was just absurd.

And then she heard the familiar sound of a kunai impacting with the sand hovering over her head, her exposed neck, and she knew. Of course, it was obvious. She was so stupid, why hadn't she realizes? There had only been two shinobi back there. There was still one more.

She spun around, hand flying for her fan, as the sand shot back to Gaara. There stood a kunoichi wearing the same headband as the two shinobi Gaara had just killed, pupils pin pricks, breath shuddering, hand on her katana a death grip. She must have just found her dead teammates.

"How dare-" the kunoichi whispered, eyes wide and unblinking, before giving up on speech and just lunging.

Temari wondered why the kunoichi was just concentrating on her. She hadn't even been the one to kill the ninjas. Oh well, grieving people were known to be unreasonable and temporarily crazy after all.

She snapped her fan out at the same time as Kankuro threw a kunai at the girl. The kunoichi dodged and Temari took the advantage to aim a blast of wind at her. The kunoichi staggered, taken by surprise, and it was then that Gaara decided enough was enough, the pathetic people were clearly taking too long dealing with this useless pest, and the sand came out to play, to "feed".

It whirled around the kunoichi like a small whirlwind and then just snapped up, like a whip lying lazily at your side before you snapped it fast and sharp. The struggling kunoichi left out a shrill scream of fear before the sand covered her moth, went inside it, working its way down her throat, seeing how far it could go before she stopped breathing, filling her lungs, brushing up against her heart. But they never died from lack of air. They never did.

Gaara brought up his hand, fingers hooked in a claw gesture, paled turned up towards the sky. And then he closed it quickly, making a fist. Temari quickly hid behind her fan and Gaara snapped open his umbrella just in time, Kankuro himself being out of range of the blood spatter.

The sand let go, the corpse fell, the sand went back to Gaara, Gaara closed his umbrella. He walked off without a word. Kankuro followed, pale and shaky, after destroying the kunoichi's Heaven scroll, of course. The leaves rustled in applause.

He really was a monster, she thought. He truly was. There wasn't a single redeeming thing to him.

Temari couldn't stop thinking about why Gaara had blocked that kunai heading for her neck for the rest of the week.


	32. Father

**Father**

Kurenai's eyes shone with love and unshed tears, reminding him of rubies.

"I was thinking you could name her." She said softly and held out the baby for him to take.

"I couldn't-" Shikamaru protested weakly, eyes fixed on the small child, eyes shaking at his side, scenario after scenario of him somehow dropping or hurting the child flashing through his mind. He wasn't ready for this.

"I insist," Kurenai said with that gentle but firm voice that said that she would get what she wanted, no matter what.

"It's not really my place-" he tried again, foolishly, hopelessly.

"I insist." Her voice dropped an octave, becoming deeper, more demanding.

Shikamaru wondered if she would actually beat him up for not naming her child. Then again, she was a woman. And Asuma-sensei's lover. And she had just gone through twelve hours of labor and had shrieked that she would murder him, the doctor, and Asuma-sensei again after she'd resurrected him. Not to mention those rather alarming threats about castrating every man on the face of the planet. She had gripped the bed railing so tightly there were actual indentations of her fingers in the steel.

Her dark hair clung to her face and neck in black tendrils, sweat glistening on her now pale skin. She had never looked more beautiful. Or tired. On that train of thought Shikamaru noticed that the outstretched hands holding the most precious gift in the world were shaking quite visibly.

He accepted the baby in a flash.

She was wrapped in a soft white cloth, cheeks flushed, a tousle of dark hair on the top of her head. It looked like a thousand cowlicks, he noticed with dim amusement. It was hard to feel amusement in this situation though. Asuma-sensei should be the one holding this baby, it was his baby after all. Asuma-sensei should have been the one to hold Kurenai's hand, the grip threatening to break a few fingers. Asuma-sensei should have been the one to take the brunt of her pained, enraged yelling. Asuma-sensei should have been the one to cut the cord.

Asuma-sensei should have been the one to name his daughter.

With a faint mewl and a little weak wriggle the baby opened her eyes. They weren't the normal blue of most newborns. They were a breathtaking red. Somehow they looked even more beautiful on her than on her mother, though he would never say so out lout for fear of offending Kurenai.

"Hitomi…" he breathed without even noticing.

"Hitomi… what a nice name. Usually give to children with beautiful eyes, yes? Oh, did she get my eyes?" there was an infinitely happy smile to Kurenai's voice, even though it also sounded exhausted. She really needed to sleep.

He nodded absently and looked up at her.

"Asuma would be so proud." She said.

His eyes stung.

XXX

Just because Kurenai was a mother didn't mean that she stopped being a kunoichi. As such there were days she was busy, weeks maybe, even some rare times months. But she couldn't just bring her child with her to missions, and so it was Shikamaru she foisted her problems off on.

Today was just such a day.

"What is it!?" he wildly demanded of the child.

Hitomi did not deign to answer. She just continued to wail. Such an arrogant child.

"Is it gas!? Are you hungry!? _Tell me!"_ Shikamaru could not describe how happy he was that his friends were not there to see him acting like this. Demanding answers from a child as if she could answer him.

Who would have thought that the one thing capable of riling him up was an inexplicably crying infant?

It was just about then as Shikamaru was hysterically picking up the phone to call for an ambulance that he noticed it. That smell.

Shikamaru had been on more than enough D class missions down to clean the sewers as a Genin to recognize it. Oh dear god.

He froze up.

"No," he whispered hoarsely to himself. "Dear god please _no." _

He had done this before, of course. Many times. Too many, really. But it was as if there was some sort of block in his brain, a block that prevented him from dwelling on those times, some sort of defense mechanism. By the time that any experienced Godfather/babysitter would have come to expect such a hellish occurrence on a daily basis that self defense mechanism that prevented him from having diaper change PTSD and horrific baby powder nightmares made him almost forget the thing entirely, so each time was as awful as the first.

It is with shaking hands and baited breath that Shikamaru approaches the four month old baby.

Shikamaru would make a highly inept father.

XXX

"You'd make a great father." Ino said offhandedly one day as he was rocking Hitomi to sleep. She was really getting to big for that kind of treatment but for some reason he was loathe to stop picking her up.

Shikamaru shot her a look that quite clearly told her just how retarded he thought her.

"Oh, screw you. Just take the damn compliment. You're great with Hitomi-chan!" Ino sticker her tongue out at him.

He'd flip her off but unfortunately he was too occupied with his handful of sleepy, cranky Hitomi Sarutobi.

"No really," she said, except now her voice was softer and her eyes more gentle and less glare-y which was never a good sign. All the symptoms of a "moment" closing in were showing. Shikamaru hated "moments". They were so awkward and painful.

"Ino-" he tried.

She placed her hand on his shoulder.

"You'd make a great father." She repeated, words scratchy and low with emotion and blue eys shining with unshed tears.

He looked away.

"So would Asuma-sensei have," he said.

* * *

I fear I have been running to heavily on the family theme lately. Ah, well. Please review!


	33. Motivation

**Motivation**

Sakura tried to filter the gritty coffee through her teeth, as many nurses in training before her had attempted, and subsequently failed, to do. She pushed away the Styrofoam cup full of watery liquid with a mutter of disgust. It was lukewarm anyway.

"Sakura!" a scolding voice called out.

She looked over her shoulder and saw Shizune standing at the threshold of the nurses' station with a frown on her face.

"No time for rest! Lady Tsunade said that you needed some real life experience of working at a hospital before she would agree to go on with your next lesson. You have to take this seriously. Now get up and off your ass work!"

Sakura let her unusually large forehead connect with the wooden surface of the table she was sitting by with a clunk and a groan of protest.

"But Shizuuuneee…"

"Don't Shizune me!"

"But-"

"No buts!"

"All I do is endlessly roll bandages and fluff pillows and carry sheets from point A to point B and-"

"And that's what being a nurse in training is all about. Someone has to do this stuff. There are countless little things needed to make a hospital work like a well oiled machine. Someone has to roll the bandages. Someone has to fluff the pillows. Someone has to carry the sheets from point A to point B. And yes, someone _does _has to give the elderly patients sponge baths."

"But I can do more!" Sakura protested feebly. "I know I'm only fourteen but I know how to diagnose someone, or how to dress a wound or-"

"I know that, Sakura." Shizune said and walked into the room. She stood next to Sakura and placed her hand on Sakura's shoulder in a comforting gesture. "Both me and Lady Tsunade. And we're both so very proud of you. But you're not here to do a job-" Sakura perked up and the scowl came back full force on Shizune's face, "but you must still do it." Sakura slumped again and Shizune's features softened yet again. "You're not here to do a job. You're here to observe. To watch. To look. You're here to see what must be done to run a hospital. What must be done to take care of it and its patients. What its nurses and healers have to do to take care of Konoha and its citizens and soldiers."

"Why?" Sakura asked, face pressed flat against the desk, voice tired and slumped shoulders showing a defeated spirit. It had been a rough ten hours.

"Because a boss must know her business."

Sakura froze.

"What?"

"A boss, Sakura. You are Lady Tsunade's one and only apprentice."

"But you-"

"I'm more of an assistant, really. I'm too busy taking care of Lady Tsunade herself. And only after a year of training you've come this far. It is truly amazing, Sakura. I respect you a lot."

Sakura sat up and looked up at Shizune, wide disbelieving eyes.

Shizune smiled at her fondly.

"One day this hospital will be yours. You will be the one who everyone here looks up to. You'll be the one who will have to shoulder the entire weight of the hospital. The one who knows the human anatomy inside out. The one who will be the greatest healer of them all. I did say we were proud, Sakura. I meant it."

"Shi-Shizune…" Sakura's voice cracked embarrassingly and much to her alarm she felt her eyes begin to sting.

"Sakura, you will be a wonderful healer one day." Shizune said and hugged her.

Sakura sniffled into her shoulder, got out of her chair, straightened her shoulders, leveled her gaze, jutted out her chin, and hastily swiped at her eyes to get rid of any tears that may or not be there.

"Yes, Shizune! I'll make you and Tsunade-sama proud!"

Sakura ran out of the room, determined to roll bandages and fluff pillows until her arms fell off. And yes, she was even willing to do more of those god awful sponge baths.

Shizune smiled after Sakura's retreating back and grinned.

"Well, it wasn't as if any of it was a lie." She said out loud to herself in the now otherwise empty room. "It was the honest truth. And if it helped and motivated her to do those sponge baths that Lady Tsunade assigned to me, well. No one will have to know about that."

The apprentice exited the room with a devious chuckle.


	34. Trust

**Trust**

Tenten's one night stands were more often than not awkward. She wasn't quite sure what it was she did wrong. When she found a handsome enough man who looked promising she would casually walk up to them. She would be charming. She would be funny. Tenten could tell it was working by the way their attention would be firmly hers, by how genuine their laugh was. She would make small talk for an appropriate amount of time, be pleasantly buzzed, and she would absently mention that she had beer over at her place. They would get a big goofy grin on their face and on the way to her apartment they would usually hold hands while playfully flirting.

And then they would climb up the stairs to her apartment, she would fumble with the keys, and they would leave behind a trail of clothes as they stumbled their way to her bed, unable to pry their mouths or fingers off each other. She would push the man flirtatiously onto his back on her bed. She would reach into her drawer and retrieve a condom. Her boy for the night would look at her with still that big goofy grin on his face, all of them did.

And that was around the time she would bring out the handcuffs. And just like that that endearing little grin would be wiped right off their face. Some would stutter and make excuses before leaving, others would call her sick and yell and storm off. It wasn't like that all of the time though. Sometimes they would look at her blankly before smirking. "Oh, so it's the kinky stuff, eh?"

Tenten didn't know why that comment stung. She didn't have anything against people who liked BDSM. They could do whatever they liked, whatever floated their boat, rose their sun, yadah, yadah. It wasn't an insult. The reason it stung was because those people were wrong. She hated misunderstandings, being blamed for something she hadn't done, wrongful suspicion. Even if those suspicions were in her benefit, made her a hero, made her look good, she didn't like it. Tenten was an honest person. She didn't handcuff all of her men because she was into that sort of thing.

But how was one supposed to say that the first person she had ever made love with had then tried to kill her immediately after as she lay nude and vulnerable in the afterglow, tired yet satisfied? How was she supposed to bring that up? How was she supposed to tell them that? That had been her first time. It should have been special. It should have been romantic. Fucking magical.

But the handsome, charming, seemingly harmless boy who she had so willingly given her virginity to hadn't been a civilian. He hadn't been from Konoha. His name hadn't even been Tsubasa. The name she had giggled when he nibbled her earlobe, the name she had whispered when he unbuttoned her blouse, the name she had gasped as he entered her, the name she had screamed during climax, it hadn't even been his.

She had liked him. Trusted him. And, during the sex, even loved him, with all of her heart, even if just for a moment. And then as she had felt her eyelids flutter closed she had heard the familiar whistle of a kunai being brought down by a firm, quick hand. Tenten had heard that sound more times than she could count, even more than a Jounin. The whistle of a descending kunai was music to her ears, after all.

How was she supposed to tell those fumbling, awkward boys, those raging, sneering men, those smirking, mistaken people, that they were wrong? No, it's not a fetish. It's just that the first man who I ever trusted with all my bare flesh tried to kill me and ever since, every time I've made love to someone the rustle of the sheets and the desiring moans have set my heart off in all sorts of ways except for the good one. No, I can't enjoy sex unless you are restrained, just in case. No, I can't trust you. No, I can't snuggle with you afterwards. No, you can't expect me to believe one hundred percent that you won't slit my throat while I'm sleeping.

How could she tell them that?

It wasn't fair, she knew. That had just been one man, just Tsubasa, or whatever his true name had been. Not all men were Tsubasa. But that had been her first time. That had been the time that had cemented for her what sex was like for the rest of her days. So this is what foreplay is. So this is what the mood is like. So this is what it's like to be connected with someone on the rawest level. So this is what they do afterwards. Fight to the death. She knew it was unreasonable, stupid, foolish, and cowardly. But she couldn't help flinching at the thought of sex without the other one being at a disadvantage.

To be honest with herself she was quite sure why her one night stands more often than not turned awkward.

Tenten couldn't believe that she could be so dumb and… and… and _fragile _as to let one bad experience color the rest of her love life. She should get over it. She should be true to herself. She would have been okay with enjoying handcuffs if it was just because it turned her on, but it wasn't like that. Each time she snapped that metal cuff around a man's wrist she was reminded that she was doing this because she let that one moment of stupidity, of mistaken trust, stop her from opening up to others, that one man had hindered her from laying herself bare and vulnerable in front of a man ever again. It was disheartening.

It was just something so safe sounding about the little click noise the mechanism made when she turned the key. Just something so secure about the knowledge that if the person beneath her were to suddenly lunge, to snarl, to attack, she could just pull back and the other person couldn't, couldn't follow her, attack her. She could just pull back and put on her clothes, could just calmly get out her kunai and begin questioning.

It was wrong. It was awful. It was depressing. What did that say about her? What sort of thing did the fact that she couldn't trust a man to not attack her during her weaker moments say about her? That she was distrustful? Suspicious? Paranoid? Tenten hadted all of those things. She was an honest person. She didn't want to be what she hated. But she was.

And so she would be charming, she would be funny, casual, reasonably suggestive and flirty, sexy. She would fumble with her keys and stumble to her bed. And she would bring out the handcuffs. And it would all come down to how much the stranger of the night trusted her. She couldn't blame them. She knew that if the positions were swapped she'd be out the door before the word "explain" could it even make its way out of their mouth.

Tenten might be an honest person, but that didn't mean that she was a trusting one.


	35. Failure

**Failure**

A ninja that does not follow the rules is scum. A ninja that is scum is useless. And a useless ninja is not needed any more, like an old kunai, the point dull and the handle scratched, the edge uneven and the metal warped. You threw away old kunais. You got rid of them. And that was all he was, an old kunai, broken and useless. It was time to throw away this old kunai.

Sakumo thought of his son. His dear son, Kakashi, so young, so restrained, so quiet. In a way, he had betrayed him as well. Sakumo had betrayed his Village by foolishly only thinking only about what was in front of him instead of the big picture and now his fellow Leaf nins were suffering for it. If he had just stayed true to the mission then there would be less dead, even accounting for his teammates that would have otherwise died had he acted differently.

Yes, he had betrayed his son. Not only would his failure color the rest of Kakashi's hopefully (but most likely not) long life, but even before the mission, what had ruined everything, even before that he had betrayed his son. He had let his wife talk him into it, let her pressure him into teaching him how to properly hold a kunai before he had even learned how to walk, let her pressure him into teaching his son the Ninja Way before teaching him morals and what was right or wrong. There had been no finger paintings or peek-a-boo in Kakashi's childhood, only blood and steel.

What kind of father did that? What kind of utter failure destroyed any potential happiness and childhood his lone child could have had just so that Konoha could have yet another soldier in its ranks? Him, of course. The type of failure that practically kick started a war that killed hundreds would do so such a monstrous thing. Him. Sakumo Hatake.

The world really would be better off without him. He had to leave before he fucked even worse, though he could not possibly fathom how he could make the situation worse, only that if it was him, he'd find a way. He always did. Kakashi wasn't enough for him. Turning his beloved son into a killing machine wasn't more than enough. He had to betray the Village, had to let his emotions steer him. Who was he? Wasn't he the infamous White Fang? Where was that now? Where was that confidence, that skill, that extra something that made him the best of the best?

He couldn't show his face in public without being met by scorn anymore, by hate, by rightful blame. He feared this was the reason why Kakashi had started wearing a mask, covering up their resemblance with dark cloth. He feared Kakashi was ashamed of him. He feared it because he knew without a doubt that he was right.

Sakumo knew what the only solution to his problems was. He knew it as surely as he knew that the sun would rise the next morning. It was the only honorable thing to do. Though honestly he hadn't exactly been the most honorably person lately, what with the brainwashing of his son and betrayal of his Village.

He told himself he wasn't just running away from his problems, the glares, the malicious whispers, the pointing fingers. His son's mask. His disappointed eyes. The rising death toll that was all on him. He wasn't running. He was doing what was honorable, for once in his life. Just for one more shining, brilliant moment he would be the White Fang again, all honor and determination, the best of the Village the only thing in his mind. He would do what was right. That was what he told himself.

His blade, it shined. The edge curved near the point wickedly, the candlelight reflecting off of the spotless steel. He had been sharpening it for hours.

He thought about leaving behind a note. He thought about it long and hard. But he saw his shaking hands, saw how he would be unable to even hold a brush, and he listened to the heavy silence of the room and heard the lack of his thoughts. He would be unable to even think of what to write. What would he write? I'm sorry? I love you, Kakashi? He couldn't think of anything.

It didn't matter what he thought. What mattered was that he left the world, rid Konoha of the unsightly blotch that was him and his failure. His blood drying on the tatami mat he was sitting on would be a more than sufficient message in and of itself.

He thought about his son. He thought about Kakashi. There was a strong chance that the first one to find his body would be his son. Should he still go through with it? Would it even matter? Kakashi had made his first kill by the time he was five. He had seen countless bodies. What was one more? But he was father. But again, what did that matter? Did Kakashi even care? Huh? Would he? Or had he done such a good job sucking the feelings out of him to make him a nice and sharp kunai for the Village that he wouldn't even care? Wouldn't even blink? What if he was just another body to that kid?

A dry sob wormed its way out of his parched throat.

Good god. What he had he done to his son? How could he?

As he placed the sword point first towards himself, right over his navel, he thought of his failures, of what he had done to come to this. The mission. His son. Maybe another father would have taken pride in that last one, his son. After all, he was a broken kunai, ready to dispose of himself, but at least he was leaving a brand new one in his wake, sharper and deadlier than all the others, useful, rule abiding, with nothing in his mind but the big picture, the mission, the Village. A better model. Someone who had learned from his mistakes.

But when he thought about his son coming home in the middle of the night to wash blood off his hands with a blank look on his partially hidden face he couldn't. He just… couldn't.

When a kunai is useless, dull and old, you throw it out. Sakumo Hatake was a firm believer of that. And, as the steel glided through his warm flesh, red blood already seeping through his clothing to stain it a horribly bright crimson, for one moment, one brilliant, shining moment, he was not Sakumo Hatake, failure extraordinary and father letdown. As he pulled in his last gasp he was the White Fang yet again, confident and strong, nothing in his mind but the big picture and his loyalty for his Village.

Two hours later when his son found him prone on the floor he cried for the first time since he was two. Because he was his father, and he loved him.


	36. Rule

**Rule**

A shinobi should never show their tears.

This is shinobi rule number 25, and for Neji, the most important one of them all. Of course he knows them all by heart, every single one, just like any good ninja should. But he especially favored number 25.

Once when he was nine he broke his leg while sparring. Accidents happened. The other child he had been sparring had broken out into hysterical tears at the sight of bleach white bone protruding from his flesh, dark blood gliding down the pale skin of his leg, pooling under his foot, in between his toes, into his sandal, children shrieking and fainting at the sight of him, the teacher gone, looking for a medic, general chaos. Neji hadn't made a single sound the entire time. He had been too busy biting his hand. When the medic came ten minutes later, after putting a tourniquet on his leg, she'd had to sew five stitches into his hand. He'd bitten that hard. But he hadn't cried. And that was what counted.

When he was eleven and on his first C class mission he had somehow become separated from his Team. It had all been a blur. An ambush. Smoke bombs. Death screams. What mattered was that he had no allies in sight, was young and inexperienced, and was surrounded on all sides by enemies. Luckily, since it was just a C mission, after all, they were only samurais, petty crooks that robbed travelers. But there were a lot of them. And he had never killed before.

He'd activated his Byakugan immediately of course, flying into the appropriate stance, ready to fight for his life. He may love his father, but he wasn't ready to see him yet.

They'd charged at him simultaneously, weapons raised and battle cries loud even though that for all intents and purposes he was just a boy. Six grown men versus an eleven year old boy, and he'd even tricked them into thinking he was blind on top of that, and yet they still attacked. These people had no honor. They were bottom feeders that needed to be dealt with.

He'd easily dodged a spear headed for his shoulder, weaving his way around two katanas, a club, a broadsword, and a mace, and he struck. Fast as a viper his hand shot forth and what the men could see all he did was lightly tap their allies neck. But he froze with a dumbfounded look on his face. His mouth opened and closed for a moment, reminding Neji of a fish on land. The man's face first went very pale and then tinged blue. He fell onto his knees. His allies gaped at the man. Neji watched on, transfixed, Byakugan activated, allowing him to see the man's heart beat furiously, his lungs strive for air, the blood flowing to his head slowly taper off. He saw it all.

The man fell face first onto the ground with a thump. The men looked at him. And they ran.

As he heard his Jounin-sensei's and teammates cries for him in the distance he blinked rapidly. Why did his eyes sting? He touched his face. It was dry. Good.

With that he turned away from the dead man, the man he'd killed, his first one, and he walked towards his team's worried cries. He opted not to mention the dead man in his report.

He would not cry even if he sustained serious injury. He would not cry even if he killed his first man. He could not. Because he had cried at his father's funeral. And his father had been an honorable man, a man worthy of respect, Branch Member or no. How dare Neji compare his father's death to that of a broken bone? How dare Neji belittle his grief for such a wonderful man by crying over some dead stranger? If his father deserved his tears, then no one else did. Not him, not some dead rogue samurai, not anyone.

Neji loved his father.

He wouldn't cry at the injustice of the treatment the Main Branch dished out to him and his fellow Branch Members. He wouldn't cry over hazy dreams of his father, bleeding, dying, a sword buried up to its hilt in his gut, face pale and bloodless, his last gasp the only sound in the world. He would not cry over nightmares. He wouldn't. He _couldn't. _

A shinobi should never show their tears.

He had not shed tears for years. And he could feel it. Like a dam with no outlets, the tears had built up for years now, an unimaginable force, an unimaginable amount, hidden behind his dam, his mask, his restraint. And he could feel it cracking. Spider webs of cracks were growing along his dam, the concrete crumbling, the mask slipping. If that dam were to fall it would all come out at once. That could not happen. It could not. He'd rather lose his eyes than let that happen. He would literally gouge them out before he allowed them to cry.

He had to do whatever he could for now to hold them back for as long as possible. Maybe if he was lucky he would die before he slipped, maybe he would be killed by a stray kunai, an enemy shinobi, before the dam could crack and the wave could come. And if abandoning all other emotions to hold back the crushing depression, the longing, the missing, the mourning, the loneliness, was what needed to be done… well. He was okay with not smiling anymore. There was nothing to smile about anymore anyway. No more laughter. No more contentment. That was okay. He hadn't needed any of that.

His father had been a man worthy of respect. Neji had cried at his funeral. He couldn't afford to cry over anything else. That would belittle his grief, his death, his loneliness. He would grieve and he would mourn but he would do it privately, respectfully, behind a mask so no one could see and try to help him. He didn't need help. He didn't want help. He wanted this pain. It was the only thing he had left of his father. If it were to disappear what would he have left? A seal. A crushing lack of freedom.

The rule might just be an excuse. He might know it, too. But it was as much part of his mask as anything else, and he wouldn't leave it for anything. Because a shinobi should not show their tears.


	37. Princess

**Princess**

At a distance Hinata Hyuuga was a delicate flower. At a distance she was the Hyuuga Heiress, as close to a Princess as Konoha would ever get. At a distance she was a fragile, demure little thing, her hands so small and dainty, her eyes so easy to shyly drop to her feet during conversation, her lilting voice so soft, all that was her so… feminine.

Close up it was a completely different thing entirely. Few people saw her close up, even her own father had never seen her close up, and her cousin loved her too dearly and fiercely to even see it no matter how close he got. But her little sister saw it. Her teacher saw it. Her teammate, Aburame Shino saw it. Kiba didn't see it. Just like with Neji he was close to her and loved her but it was too much, not to mention his personality. He was kind and well intention, of course, he just… wasn't good at seeing hidden things. Looking underneath the underneath, Kakashi Hatake would have said.

Up close Hinata Hyuuga was a cactus. Up close her bones had been broken again and again over the years but they had mended each time, up close her hands were lethal, the lightest touch, the briefest of taps, would bring death as easily as a noose around your neck, her eyes no matter where they went, her feet, the ceiling, to the left of your head, she still saw all, her soft, lilting voice calling out the names for her Clan's battle stances so firmly, all that was her was so… strong.

Femininity did not mean weakness.

Hinata was a sweet girl of course, as genuine and sincere as they came, goodhearted and forgiving almost to a fault. But she was a ninja. She was a Hyuuga. She was the Heiress. She may be unable to utter a sentence while chatting with a friend without stuttering but when fighting for her Village the words for her ninjutsu rolled off her tongue with ease. She may be shy and insecure but if you let that get in your way when fighting for your life you were a goner. Hinata was a survivor.

She would fight and she would grow stronger and she would become a Jounin. And when she became a Jounin her father would pass the mantle to her, letting her become the Clan Leader. She had to. When she had been young she had known that her father was seriously considering letting her little sister, Hanabi, become Clan Leader instead, and she had welcomed the idea, the free pass from responsibility, pressure, and she had been happy for Hanabi for not having to bear the Caged Bird Seal, ready to sacrifice herself for her sister, ready to abandon her freedom. But it didn't have to be like that. She realized that now. The Clan Leader called the shots, and if that was what she was in the future Hanabi would not have to bear the Seal because of her success. It didn't have to be like that. If Hinata were Clan Leader she could get rid of the Seals, not just save Hanabi, but Neji too, and all of the Branch Members.

And what would the Elders say about that? What would her father say? Screw what they said! To Hell with what they thought! She did not give a _damn _what the other Main Members thought. To Hell with them, and to _Hell _with slavery. Hinata was not going to stand by as she allowed the continued enslavement of her _family. _

At heart, Hinata had always been a cactus. A prickly, harmful cactus. And she was proud of it too. Because Princesses could be warriors as well. Hinata was living proof of that.

* * *

Short, I know, but whatever. Did you guys like it?


	38. Training

**Training**

"_What!?" _the three teammates squawked in unison.

His eye curved into that familiar, infuriating little eye-smile.

"I said," tone light, casual and carefree as you please, shoulders slumped and orange book out and open, "I think it would benefit you three in the long run if you were to stick your hands in that campfire."

The campfires crackle suddenly became ten times more ominous.

Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura stared blankly at their teachers for all of three minutes in stunned silence, disbelieving of the fact that even _Kakashi Hatake _would say something so… so…

"Suicidal," Sakura breathed. "That… that's freaking suicidal, sensei!"

Said sensei chuckled, casted her a fond look, and shook his head. "Ah, I have such cute students! Now stick your hand in the fire."

"No!" she said indignantly and hugged her hand to her chest as if to protect it.

"You're crazy, Kaka-sensei!" Naruto screeched. He did that a lot. The screeching.

"Kaka-sensei?" Kakashi queried, furrowing his brow and being ignored by his students. They were far busier with the obviously stupendously important task of loudly declaring his insanity. Ah, his students could be so cruel at times.

After awhile it started getting old so he ended the protests in what (he thought) was obviously the best possible way to end them. He demonstrated. By putting his hand in the fire.

The protests ended. Jaw dropping ensued.

The flames licked across his hand, curling around his fingers and gliding over his palm and ghosting over the back of his hand, encircling his wrist, dancing on his fingertips playfully. It tickled.

"It's not so hard." He lightly remarked.

That broke them out of the stupor.

"How are you doing that?" Sasuke asked. More like demanded, really. The Uchiha was incapable of asking anyone for anything. Incapable.

"We've talked about this," he reprimanded them. "Tree walking, tree walking."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Sakura said, "I must have missed the part about how channeling chakra to your feet help make you untouchable by flames. How silly of me."

"How silly," Kakashi agreed amicably with a nod.

He turned his hand palm up and wiggled his fingers, watching the flames respond to his movement, flickering around before settling again.

"No, while I realize that was sarcasm what you just said is actually true, Sakura."

All eyes were on him.

"Remember the part where I told you that generating too much chakra to the soles of your feet would just make you shoot off like a rocket?"

"Not in quite those words," Sasuke said dryly.

He ignored him.

"Well if you were to do that with your hand, everything would just avoid it, like any surface. Right? So what you're essentially doing is creating an invisible force field. Some of you may have heard of water walking-" Sasuke and Sakura nodded while Naruto squawked "Wait, what? Water walking? _We can walk on water-" _his teammates both hit him up his head and he stopped talking, thought with a significantly sullen look, "and how channeling chakra to the soles of your feet continuously will help stick to the surface of liquid."

He extracted his hand from the fire. It was slightly warmer than the rest of him, but pleasantly so.

"Well if you weren't continuously channeling it, and instead just tree walking, then you would fall through, become shocked by the sudden fall, and lose concentration entirely. But if you were to, say, channel chakra not just to the soles of your feet or the palms of your hands, but to your _entire body, _then you would still not be able to walk on water if you weren't continuously reapplying it like you do when you water walk.

"But," he said, raising his finger, his students eyes glued to it like he was about to do something unexpected, "if you made sure not to lose concentration then you would not become wet. You would fall through the surface but the entire way to the bottom the water would avoid you, allowing an air pocket to follow your descent."

Back in the fire the finger went.

"That is what I am doing to my hand. The fire does not hurt because it is not actually touching my hand. If I were to stick my hand in a lake right now, it would not get wet."

He looked at his students.

"Do you understand?"

His students looked back at him.

"Show off," Naruto declared, pointing a finger accusingly at him.

Sakura was the first one able to stick her hand fully into the fire safely, of course.

* * *

This entire chapter is basically just a retaliation to a review I got for my Hound chapter. Also, was I the only one who, when at first seeing the water walking episode, went "Oh my God, _Jesus Christ was a ninja._"? Please say I wasn't.


	39. Alone

**Alone**

Naruto sometimes sees him when the Uchiha family decides to grace the village with their presence. They will come sneering, tittering derisively at them, wrinkling their noses in disgust at the children running and playing without shoes, the men scratching their flee ridden scalps, the homeless women with mouths to feed selling their bodies on the corner due to not having anything else left to sell.

He never sneers though. Never titters or wrinkles his nose, never whisper harsh words to the ear of his relative next to him. He doesn't smile either though. He doesn't genuinely laugh or chuckle at all. His face is a mask of indifference, not judging, not caring, and somehow so intriguing.

Naruto is a baker. The Haruno's had been so kind as to take him in, orphan that he was, and he worked hard to repay the debt that he knew he would never truly be able to. He was very grateful. There were calluses on his hands and he always smelled like flour, always had a scent of fresh bread to him, a burn or cut or two to accompany the calluses on his hands.

When the Uchiha family came, either to pay a social visit to some nobles on the other side of the village, or maybe to go shopping amongst some of the snobbier shops in Konoha, people would gather. They would scowl at the nobles, but they would come to look. They would come to see people with better lives than them, people who always had food in their stomachs, people who not only had enough clothes but _expensive _clothes, clothes made out of silk and velvet, clothes tailored perfectly just for them, clothes that they and only they had ever worn before. They came to see the beautiful carriages drawn by the healthy horses, the pretty, arrogant, powdered faces, and the lifestyle everyone fantasized about.

Naruto would knead the dough and peering through the shop window he would see him. _Him. _

He was no less or prettier than his family. They were all beautiful, really. But somehow, he stood out. At least for Naruto he did. His pale indifferent face would stand out so clearly from his family that you would think that he was surrounded by darkness, that he was a lone shining star twinkling in the dark all alone. His eyes were dark as was his hair. His skin was pale and his visage was… amazing. But that was nothing special when it came to the Uchiha's. Some people speculated that they had bought eternal beauty from the devil with gold. That was why some villagers, more superstitious than others, would cross themselves when they came.

Naruto would see him though, and he would see something familiar. Someone alone even in a crowd. That was what he looked like. Just like Naruto. All alone in a sea of faces.

But Naruto wasn't one for gossip. Or rumors. Or sticking his nose where it didn't belong. So he didn't ask around. He didn't listen with a careful ear. Didn't point and wonder who that unsmiling Uchiha was.

He didn't and he supposed that meant that this could be nothing short of fate.

The sun was hidden behind grey cloud fat with rain eager for release, the scent of ozone in the air distinct and easy to pick out. Most were hurrying home, packing up their stalls from the market and hurriedly collecting the laundry from the lines they hung from. Naruto himself was taking out the trash while he still could without having to brave the rain. The alley stunk of rotten food and rats squeaked. He tossed the trash in a pile and turned around to go back inside the building.

And then he heard a moan.

Low, pained, male, close.

Naruto froze in his steps.

"… Hello?" he cautiously called out.

Another moan, weak, feeble, hurt. A light drizzle began.

It came from just behind the pile of trash bags, out of his sight. He walked towards it slowly.

"Who is it?" He asked.

It had to be a drunk or something. Yeah, a drunk who'd gotten into a bar brawl and then passed out in the alley between the bakers and the tailor. Except that the closest bar was almost on the other side of town, and no bars opened on Sundays.

Another sound, not a moan this time, something more tired, like a sigh.

He rounded the pile.

There, propped up against the brick wall, was one indifferent Uchiha. Except his immaculate clothes were now ruffled and dirty, and worst of all there was blood. Blood on his collar his shirt, his pants. There was a lot of blood.

For a moment Naruto just stood there in shock, before he burst into movement.

"O-oi! Are you okay? Where are you hurt!?" he shouted as he kneeled besides the young man, the Uchiha who for once wasn't surrounded by a sea of faces, and was still alone.

He opened his eyes with a wince and looked at him in a blurry, dazed sort of way, as if waking up from deep sleep.

"Not my blood…" he sighed.

A beat.

"Well. Most of it at least." He tilted his head back and released a light, breezy laugh, sounding drunken and humorless. He didn't smell like alcohol though.

He might have laughed but he managed not to smile.

"What happened?" he asked.

Concern, alarm, morbid curiosity. How could a perfect stranger always manage to stir up such a mess of conflicting emotions in him each and every time?

"Brother…" he murmured.

And then, a sudden spark of clarity in his dark eyes.

"Brother. Itachi…" his voice broke in the most heart wrenching of ways on the name and for just a fraction of a second his mask broke, the indifference turning into something utterly raw and despairing and betrayed, but then it was as if it never happened again. Naruto was sure he'd seen it though.

The drizzle grew into a light rain. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

"Come on, let's get inside." He pulled at his arm, trying to urge him to stand.

He ignored him. Huh. At least there was _some _family resemblance there, besides the looks.

"I… ran here?" he appeared confused.

"Uchiha, c'mon…" he tried.

Thunder crackled. Rain fell.

"It's Sasuke," he corrected absently. Finally, a name to the face.

"Well, Sasuke, come on, it's raining-"

"Why would he kill them?" Uchiha- Sasuke, apparently- asked in a tiny, weak voice.

Naruto didn't know what to say. Hell, it would help to know _what _the hell had happened. But whatever it was, it had probably been horrible.

With a sigh he gave up with the coercion and just picked the bastard up. Bride style.

He had a feeling the sixteen year old man he was holding would have normally viciously protested at such treatment but at the moment he was in a pretty nasty state of shock, and the last thing the guy needed on top of everything was a cold and possibly getting hit by lighting.

It was a relief getting back inside under a roof, inside a building with a fireplace. They dripped water on the floor and Naruto wrote himself a mental note to clean that up later.

He set Sasuke down in a chair and stepped back and looked. He wasn't covered in so much blood anymore, the rain having washed away the most of it. Now his dark hair clung to his face and his neck, his clothes clinging to his skin. He watched a drop of water fall from his eyelashes and decided it would be the best to look away. It was not the right thing to do to check out a… mourning man, possibly.

He was about to turn away, to get a towel maybe or something, but then he was stopped by a slight tug at his shirt. He turned around. Dark, lost eyes looked up at him and pale, slender flingers held the tail end of his shirt.

"Stay," he said in a hushed voice.

He looked very alone.

Naruto only hesitated for a moment, but then he pulled up another chair and sat besides the Uchi- Sasuke. He sat besides Sasuke.

He didn't look so alone anymore.


	40. Time

**Time**

The sun rises and the sun sets. The moon comes out from hiding underneath the horizon and reaches its highest point of ascent in the dark night sky before gently descending back into hiding again as all sleep during the still silence of the night. Days change.

The flowers bloom, the rabbits coats turn brown, and spring has arrived. Steaks and hamburgers are barbequed and bikini season is back in full swing again, sandy beaches every other day when you aren't busy eating watermelon and frolicking in water parks with your family and friends. The leaves change color, going from healthy green to nostalgic orange, cozy brown, and crimson red, they twirl elegantly through the air, carried by the slightly bitingly cold wind of autumn, falling to the ground, leaving the branches naked in their wake. The earth hardens, frost arrives, and the first snow falls, covering the ground in a fine layer of magnificent, pure white, blinding, dazzling, untouched, the beauty of winter. Seasons pass.

A mother clenches the hand of her husband tightly and pushes as hard as she can, teeth grinding, face twisting into a pained grimace, and after hours of heard labor, a child is born.

The skin is red and wrinkled, slick with his mother's blood, and the healer spanks the infant on its rear and the boys first howl escapes him.

"It's a healthy baby boy!" the healer declares and the mother slumps in exhaustion and satisfaction and the father sighs in relief. He'd been hoping for a boy.

Days pass, the sun and moon rising and falling in tandem. Seasons pass, the flowers blooming, the barbeques sizzling, the leaves falling, and the snow making its appearance only to melt in a few months. Time goes on.

The boy grows up, and one day he climbs up a tree in the backyard with the vague idea of sleeping up there where his mother couldn't find him. He falls. He is dazed, calm, until he looks down on his legs and sees white bone protruding from flesh, as red and slick with blood as he had been on the day he'd been born. He doesn't remember that though. He has always been a relatively calm boy, lazy his mother would say, but he was merely a child and so he screamed.

A few months later when the cast came off all that remained was a puckered scar, a discoloration on a certain spot on his leg, merely an unsightly blemish. The boy isn't vain so he just shrugs and doesn't try to sleep up in trees any longer.

The sun rises. The moon sets. Rabbit coats, bikinis, nostalgic orange and cozy brown and crimson red, the earth hardening. Time goes on.

The scar turns silvery and hard to notice. The boy acquires a tan.

He is a ninja now, graduated from the Academy despite all odds, on team with his best friend and a troublesome girl. His mind grows stronger and more versatile each day, more flexible, more tactical, strategically, cold, calculating.

He grows up into a man, his mind his greatest tool, all but forgotten his scar, newer, bigger ones covering his body now. He still has his best friend, and the troublesome girl, while still troublesome, is a woman now. His wife. He had no idea how _that _happened. It just had.

So much for a normal, boring wife.

Ah, well.

Moon goes up, sun comes down. Days change. Spring arrives, sandy beaches, bare branches, frost is back. Seasons pass.

Now it is he, not his father, who is holding the hand of his wife, her hold tight, painful. She pushes and shouts and swears and after many hours of grueling labor she lets out a final scream, he thinks she's going to break his hand, and the baby's there. A slap, a howl, "It's a healthy baby girl!", and shock. Damn. He'd been hoping for a boy. A daughter would be probably even _more _troublesome than his wife, hard as that was to believe.

"Ha," his wife laughs breathlessly, sweat plastering her hair to her face, her entire being more tired than it had ever been before. And yet she still has it in her to tease him. Of course.

"P-pay up… ya loser…" she manages.

Obediently (god, when did he get so _whipped?_) he reaches into his pocket, retrieves his wallet, and fishes out the cash they'd agreed upon. Damn her.

The healer hands him his daughter and he looks down on her, a tuft of blond hair on top of her head, her eyes still that baby blue for now, her skin red and wrinkly, dried free of blood, mouth twisted in a cry. Why did he find this thing cute? This thing wailing in his arms so loudly his ear drums _ached, _this thing that he would have to clean up after, changing her when she soiled herself, getting up in the middle of the night for her, interrupting his sex schedule, and more importantly his _sleep _schedule, making sure this little bundle of flesh that had absolutely no survival instinct whatsoever didn't kill itself. Why did he find it cute? Damn. This must be what his father had been talking about. Parenthood. His greatest nightmare come true. Damn, damn, damn.

Time goes on.

His daughter learns how to walk and promptly breaks her first leg, screaming her head off all the while. One morning he finds his wife points out his first gray hair for him and he shrugs it off. His daughter starts speaking fluently and he and his wife have yet another anniversary. His wife gives their daughter the talk because they'd been noticing lately her budding chest and lasting glances after pretty boys her age. There are crow's feet around his eyes. They snuck up on him before he'd even noticed it.

The earth circled the sun, the moon followed its cycle as dutifully as ever. Days change. First spring, then summer, then autumn, and then winter. Again and again. Over and over. Seasons pass.

His wife has a head of silver and he finds it tranquil, elegant, but he doesn't say so. He's not that kind of guy. But he lets her know he finds her beautiful in little ways here and there, and she's observant, a part of why he loves her, and so she notices, and he notices she notices. He voluntarily brushes her hair in the morning, no matter how much he complains while doing it. He kisses her every day, as he has done since the first day of their marriage, and he never hesitates, never shortens it, never skips it. He remembers her favorite food, favorite flower, favorite music, favorite color, favorite everything, because he loves her.

His hair is a sort of dark grey, not like the lunar like silver of his wife. Liver spots appear slowly on his hands, so slowly he doesn't even notice them at first. He gets wrinkles. He's not fit anymore, he can't pull off an effortless back flip any longer, not that the cares too much. It's been a nice life, and he's ready for death. Besides the aches and pains being old isn't too bad. It lets him be retired. Lets him relax back home with his wife, lets him play shogi with his best friend, lets him take care of the deers back at the Nara compound.

He kicks back and waits for the end of his days. He waits for the days to stop changing and for the seasons to stop passing.

Day, night, spring, summer, autumn, winter.

Time goes on.

His wife and daughter comfort each other as his casket is lowered into the ground. Against all odds he has managed to survive his career. As he's always dreamed, he passed away in his sleep. Painlessly.

All of his friends come to his funeral, and he is mourned. He's had a good life, a great life, even.

Earth covers him, and in the winter it hardens. In the spring it thaws, and in the summer holes appear in his casket, maggots creeping inside. They feast on his flesh. It's not out of maliciousness, they're not smart enough for that sort of thing. It's merely the circle of life, nothing personal. They eat his rotting flesh to his bleach white bone and that starts to fall apart too after awhile. His wife takes her place besides him under the earth not long after, and this time his daughter is comforted by her fiancée, a very kind, young man. The same process with the maggots occur with her as well, and it is only natural.

They crumble to dust underneath the earth together. It's very romantic, in his opinion. His wife sometimes called him morbid. He loves her very much.

Days change. Seasons pass. Times goes on.

* * *

Oh, man! I'm so sorry for going so long without updating! It's just that I had this test this week and was studying like crazy and I THAT IS NO EXCUSE, SHAME PRIM, _SHAME._


	41. Infant

**Infant**

There was something inside a human being that rebelled at the idea of a dead infant. Something that automatically triggered the emotion known as _revulsion, _the emotion known as _depression, _the emotion _horror, _at the thought of a little child cold and unmoving, no pulse, no heartbeat, no breath, no _life_.

While he was called many things, sociopath, psychopath, insane, murderous, merciless, _emotionless, _yet he could still understand that something. He could understand the revulsion, the depression, the horror. Itachi Uchiha, despite all appearances, rumors, and evidence, was a very empathetic man.

When he was young, only six years, mature far beyond his age, already a Chunnin, blood already staining his hands, his weapons, his conscious, his sleep, he had often thought of Sasuke dying. Already only after a year of Sasuke being in the world he loved his little brother more than the world itself. It was no contest. The world, it was ugly. It was unfair, cruel even. It was cold and violent and Itachi hated it. He hated the way karma was arbitrary, the way fate threw innocent people into awful situations, the way bad things happened to good people. He hated the fact that the world wasn't a fairytale.

Sasuke was anything but that. Sasuke was… Sasuke was perfect. He was everything. He was pure, innocent, untouched by the injustice and cruelty of the world. He didn't have a malicious bone in his body. He was just a baby, just a year old. When Sasuke cried it took his parents a long time to calm him, all Itachi had to do was cradle him in his arms and shush him and he quieted almost right away. He knew it irked his mother, made her jealous, made her guilty for being jealous. He felt sorry but he still loved the way his little brother trusted him so intimately.

And therefore, since he loved his brother more than anything, since he knew the world was a cold, cruel place and would most likely wrench anything he loved away from him sooner or later, the thought of Sasuke inevitably dying never completely left his mind. Always there, at the back of his mind, churning, plaguing him, disturbing his sleep, stealing away his appetite.

There were recurring themes. Enemy shinobi, out after revenge for him killing someone close to them, someone he hadn't wanted to kill in the first place but had had to due to responsibility, due to sense of duty, due to loyalty, the three great things that controlled him, controlled his life. He often dreamt of people like that coming and killing his little brother. His precious little brother, his Sasuke, dead, because of him. It was an unbearable thought. There were other scenarios that plagued him. An accident, something unstoppable that he couldn't prevent, something that the great big, vast universe had decided to dole upon his family on a sadistic whim. Someone he didn't know doing the deed, just some random crazy person, deciding to pick Sasuke as his victim for absolutely no reason at all. Just bad luck. There were a lot of scenarios for his subconscious to choose from.

There was a reason he slept so rarely. A reason for the lines under his eyes.

It was a lot less awful when a full grown person died. It was still horrible, of course, but it wasn't as earth shatteringly, incomprehensibly brutal, meaningless, _vicious. _Because an adult had lived a life. That person had met his or her potential, had grown as a person. It was different with a baby. All that lost potential.

That was the worst of it. If Sasuke died as a baby, then Itachi would have never truly known him. Sasuke wouldn't get the chance to grow a personality, to acquire likes and dislikes, personal tastes and habits and quirks all his own. He would never get the chance. Itachi wouldn't get the chance to get to know how his little brother would have been, _who _he would have been. He wouldn't get to know if his little brother would be an athlete or a scholar, social or awkward, outgoing or shy. He wouldn't know if Sasuke was the sort of person that liked autumn or summer, if he liked books or playing with friends. He wouldn't get to know if Sasuke was kind or mean, friendly or lonely, positive or negative.

Itachi was a hundred percent sure that no matter what Sasuke became he would still love him more than anything else, he just wanted his little brother to grow up, acquire a personality, a sense of self, a knowledge of the world and his surroundings. He wanted for Sasuke to learn how to spell his own name, how to pronounce _Big Brother, _How to read and write, count and drawn, play and laugh, love and cry.

It was a tragedy when an infant died. Every iota of a human being shied away from the thought, the idea of it at all. Someone who wasn't like that, who didn't flinch in the face of all of that lost potential, all of those people that baby would have encountered, met, conversed with, gotten to know, all of those lives the baby would have changed, influenced, a person who didn't cringe at the loss of it all, a person who didn't wince at all could only be someone inherently broken, twisted, shattered, wrecked, fragmented, cracked, someone who could by no rights be called _human. _

Itachi, despite all of the lives he had snuffed out, despite the fact that he had done something unimaginable and destroyed his family, his own flesh and blood, despite the fact that he was eerily expressionless, eerily strong, eerily dangerous, despite all of this underneath that careless exterior, underneath the hidden self hating turmoil inside of him, was _empathy. _Love, care, emotion. Just like everyone else, everyone who wasn't broken and twisted and wrong, he hated the thought of all that, that life, that world where potential was met, being snuffed out. He hated it.


	42. Sacrifice

**Sacrifice**

It is raining, and that's what it's pretty much been doing for weeks now. Day in and day out there was the constant thrum of water thundering down on the roof in the back ground, the endless pitter patter of droplets hitting the window panes being what Sasuke had woken up to and fallen asleep to for nearly a month.

It seemed appropriate.

Sasuke doesn't bother leaving his house, the Compound. He preferred staying cooped up in the place his family died to shrugging on a jacket, going outside, and facing the music. He refused to be pointed at, refused to hear the whispers, to see the stares. He didn't care if he was low on food. It wasn't worth it. He'd rather starve.

He could hear them now.

_That Uchiha kid, walking around like he _owns _the place_

_That traitor, I oughta…_

_Just a matter of time before he turns around and does it all over again too_

He deserved that. Deserved it. He _had _betrayed the Village. He'd become impatient. Rash. Reckless. He'd felt like that for every moment that passed his brother grew stronger while he just stayed in the same old rut, never growing, never changing. Weak, weak, weak. He'd felt like time was running out, like there was a certain time limit to his revenge and the hour glass was running out of sand _fast. _So much pressure. So much stress. No time for sleep, for rest, for fun, for _friends. _

No time for friends.

And so he had left the Village. Just up and left, abandoning the people he didn't have time for because the deadline was closing in so fast he could feel its menacing breath on the nape of his neck and he couldn't _think. _He'd decided that it was the Village that was holding him back, the people he didn't have time for (even though that dobe had always had time for him), it had to be his surroundings fault that he was like this, so _weak, _it _had _to be because the alternative was so infinitely horrible that he could barely even bare to think about it. That it was an impossible goal. That Itachi was out of his league and always would be. That Itachi had been born strong and he not, talent over hard work. It was unbearable.

But whatever he had thought at the time, whatever Curse Marks had been placed on his body, what he had done was still unforgivable. He knew he didn't deserve to be here, back in this Village, really. He'd rather just commit seppuku. Except he couldn't that now.

_I bet he's _glad _our hero is out of his way now_

_The sick freak_

_He maybe even planned for this all along, you remember Madara right? They're all the same_

They could mutter about how he had betrayed them all day if they wanted to. Hey, he could cope. But they had to mention _him _too, of course. That was also his fault. But he couldn't take being reminded by it. Of course, he never stopped thinking about it anyways. It was always there, in the back of his mind, _taunting _him. He would never break free. Never.

What exactly had Naruto done anyways? Nothing. He'd had nothing but good intentions every step of the way since the day he was born till the day he died.

Till the day he died. The words rung hollowly in his head.

He would have become Hokage. When Sasuke had first heard was his teammates life ambition once he'd given him a look of disbelief, but as time passed and their bond grew he turned around one day and realized that sometime when he hadn't even noticed it he had come to believe with a rock solid surety that Naruto would live up to his word, that his face would be up on that mountain one day, looking down on all of those Villagers who he loved unconditionally, all of this Villagers who had _hated _him, spitefully, bitterly, looking for a scapegoat and choosing him.

The Villagers had used to love Sasuke as well. The last Uchiha. That poor thing. Our Village's pride. And that nasty Demon Brat. Shouldn't be allowed to walk the streets. It's downright dangerous. But time had passed, and the Village had opened its eyes and seen who they _really _should have loved all along, who they _really _should have hated. And it had only taken them sixteen years. Golden star for the Villagers. A+. They're a bit slow on the uptake but they always eventually get it. Not doing so well concerning chemistry, a bit disruptive in class, nothing else to complain about. Ha ha. Sasuke cracked himself up sometimes. Fucking hilarious.

_Our hero _sacrificing _himself for that betrayer_

_It's not right I tell ya, it's not right…_

_How does that work exactly? We trade in a saint for a monster?_

His stomach rumbled for food but he didn't have an appetite. Didn't feel like seeing his vomit yet again. That was what it was like. His body told him he needed something but his mind didn't want it. Want over need. His eyelids felt heavy, his mind was sluggish, and his thoughts circling around in nonproductive loops, his vision fuzzy; he was tired. He didn't want sleep though. He didn't need to see the nightmares again. His pale skin told him _sun_, but his mind told him _hide. _

He didn't feel like moving, or eating, or sleeping, or living. He didn't feel like nothing at all. Except for shame. Regret. Self-hatred. Guilt.

He couldn't kill himself now anyways. He'd been seriously considering it, until… until…

_He's probably not even grateful, the self entitled brat_

_Heard he didn't even cry, just stared_

_Didn't come to the funeral_

No. He couldn't so casually destroy what Naruto had given his life to protect. Even if it was his own life. If he did it, if he really killed himself… it would have all been for nothing. So he had to live.

Didn't meant that he'd have to enjoy it.

It continued raining.

* * *

Sorry updating has been so erratic as of late. I've just been _really _distracted.


	43. Intelligence

**Intelligence**

Numbers briefly filled her vision, wind resistance, the angle and trajectory of the shuriken, her strength, the size of the target, the direction she predicted the target would most likely move in trying to dodge, hopelessly really, calculations and ones and zeros and more.

All of it for just the briefest fraction of a second took up her entire mind and it was all she could focus on, but then reality snapped back into place and she drew her arm back and with a deft little twist of her wrist flicked the shuriken at the exactly right moment, in the exactly right direction, the razor blades spinning so fast, cutting through the air, it was just a shiny metal blur, as impossible to block or avoid as the wind itself.

There was a soft meaty _squelch _and a white kimono stained red at the collar bone, her target now wearing a necklace of crimson, falling to the ground, dark eyes wide, pulse fading, heartbeat faltering, life wilting. Her target, her enemy, fell to the ground, limp and dead.

Tenten, as fast as a viper, swiveled around to see a man wearing the same type of headband as her now dead target, fury and grief etched onto his visage. Another target.

She retrieved a kunai from her pouch in a flash, dodging the katana of her new target aimed to separate her head from her neck, sloppily she thought rather unfavorably.

Estimates and sums flashed bright, covering the world, the breeze, her targets clothes, the target himself, her kunai, adding onto each other over and over again until the white digits temporarily turned her blind, the world a bright white. Numbers were everything.

She lunged, not a movement wasted, every single twitch of her fingers and cock of her head useful for her final motion of plunging her kunai into her targets throat. Small flecks of blood spattered onto her face, but nothing much. A baffled expression appeared on the man's formerly enraged face and she nimbly leaped back from him before his dead weight fell and trapped her, extricating her kunai at the same time.

Like a grand old tree finally meeting its end the target fell, a red liquid ribbon trailing after him. _Thump. _

The man's lifeblood soaked into the earth, granting the plants the sustenance it needed to live, to survive. The man died and his surroundings thrived. The circle of life.

A single drop of blood of blood hung at the very edge of her sharp now crimson painted kunai, dangling over the edge so to speak. It lingered for a brief moment before falling onto her sandal. She could almost imagine she heard it. _Drip. _

Few people seemed to realize just how much math was involved with weapons. Trajectory, angles, velocity, mass. She never missed her target, and for that to be necessary her mind had to be as fine tuned and sharp as her weapons, perfect and well taken care for, a living calculator inside her skull, adding and subtracting constantly and always for optimal results in the heat of a life or death battle that might just be her last if she didn't calculate exactly right. If she was too slow, if she was incorrect, then that was it. One mistake was all her targets needed to turn _her _into the target. One wrongly placed number. Just one. One.

It was a constant weight at the peripheral of her thoughts.

"Good job, Tenten!" Lee appeared in a green flash, nearly too fast for the naked eye to see. The sun glared off his white teeth, as bright as the numbers sometimes consuming her vision when it sometimes all became too much, his arm outstretched, his hand in a fist that she knew could take her out faster than she could ever dream or hope to calculate, his thumb pointing towards the sky in his approval. His Good Guy pose.

"Where's Neji?"

"My Eternal Rival is dressing his wounds!"

"Nothing serious I hope?"

"Just a few scratches I assure you, Tenten! Ah, your concern for our teammate is so touching!" Lee broke into heartfelt tears.

Tenten, ignoring him, set to cleaning her weapons.

Her eyes glided over to her fallen targets eventually. That was all they were. Targets for her weapons, practice for the more serious threats that were bound to come. They always did.

The wind rustled the leaves and for a second primes and countless letters bloomed, something alive and fluid, before swiftly fading when the leaves settled. Her mind was a fine tuned weapon, and the world was a battlefield. She was always ready, always prepared. She could not turn it off and felt no urge to do so.

This was what made her such a skilled ninja. Of her entire boundless arsenal filled to the brim with every weapon imaginable her mind was her greatest weapon of all.


	44. Past

**Past**

The images are jumbled, hazy, like a fleeting dream slipping from her grasp the longer she stays awake. Maybe if she just slips quietly back into that calm, dark unconsciousness she'd just surfaced from she'd find it again, be able to relive it, re-experience it, and remember what was forgotten so that things would make sense again. No. This wasn't a dream. This was real. If she fell asleep she'd forget. She was so close, close enough to taste: terror, confusion, panic. Something bad. She was on the cusp of it, so near to remembering.

Things didn't make a whole lot of sense at the moment. It would be nice to get some order in her head, sort things out, and categorize events into their proper slots and places.

But there is mask covering the lower half of her face, and as she inhales she does not breathe in air, but something sweet and heady, and her thoughts become slow and sluggish. The covers are soft and warm, and the call of sleep is too seductive for her to ignore.

With that Hinata fell asleep again.

"She wasn't hurt, but the morphine should keep her from panicking." A voice she couldn't hear anymore said and left the room with its acquaintance.

Fragments, separated scenes, yet all somehow connected, each of them part of one memory. It wasn't a good memory. It was dark, jarring, suffocating.

Maybe it was best if she didn't pursue it.

She slept. She slept in her comfortable futon. She slept, blissfully pampered and taken care of. She wasn't even hurt, wasn't even injured. Yet she was given a room with guards, given calming drugs when she probably didn't even need them. Why should she panic? She was Hinata Hyuuga. She was the Heiress. No one would allow her to be hurt, to be taken. She would have been found eventually. She would have been traded for ransoms.

And yet her bullheaded father had gone ahead and fought and killed the assassin and _Neji's _father had to be the one to pay for it. His father was innocent. Had been. Past tense. He hadn't even been awake at the time. Executed for a crime he didn't commit. It was unfair. Cruel.

Neji's head pounded. It was unpleasant, painful even. Like someone was hammering his skull in with a hammer made out of wood, slowly, steadily.

"_Cruel,_" he whispered and reached out for his Heiresses throat.

For all the guards they put around her room Neji had still managed to find a way in. Pathetic. The Clan was practically begging someone to come kidnap her. Kill her, even. Kill her.

His mouth went dry. He didn't know why he'd come here, didn't know why he was reaching for her, sneaking about, silent as the night. But now he knew. He realized. Kill her. Revenge.

His father's face flashed before his eyes, a face he would never see again, a face wrenched away from him when he already had so little. His hand inched closer.

The headache pounded louder, harder, the wood hammer now metal, cold and unforgiving, like the Clan. Like the Main Branch. Like a man who would cast his only brother to the wolves to save his own skin.

His fingers brushed against her bared throat and the hammer was an ice pick now, sharp and jabbing and _digging into his brain. _The pain was so overwhelming that he momentarily went blind and he fell to his knees.

Moments later he came to and withdrew his hand. The pounding relented by a fraction.

Oh. So that was what it was. That was how it was going to be. The Curse. The Seal. Of course it would protect the Main Branch members. Of course. He couldn't be the first Hyuuga to wise up and try to kill one of the slave owners.

He clenched his hand into a fist.

So they would deny him revenge. Deny him what was rightfully his. Of course. Why not? They'd already taken everything else. His freedom. His dignity. His father.

Tears, hot and salty, streamed down his pale face in the darkness. Hinata hadn't woken up once despite having narrowly almost died.

Neji wanted to scream, to hit her, to burn down the whole Compound and everyone in it. Why should they get to live and not his father? It wasn't fair. Not fair. Not fair. Not fair.

_Maybe it was best if she didn't pursue it. _

The idea was alluring, but a feather light touch, like an angel brushing the tip of its wing over her throat, yet the sensation oddly despairing, made her cast away such thoughts. No. It might be important. It was her responsibility as the Hyuuga Heiress to confront her fears and do what was best.

She plunged headlong into the shards of a broken memory, her throat still tingling from the touch, angry and righteous and indignant and sad and despairing and grieving and mourning all at once.

A burlap sack trapping her, a warm muscular shoulder digging furiously into her stomach, making her think she would puke, confused from being torn away from the warm hold of sleep to this, the chill of the night air tickling her bare feet, the rough material of the sack scraping along her exposed skin.

And-

She deserved to die, she deserved to die, she deserved to-

being tossed carelessly through the air, and-

They took his father and they made him play along on threat of death and he couldn't even hurt them in retaliation and he _couldn't-_

-a liquid, warm and wet, smelling sweetly of copper and she was _drenched-_

-make this injustice known. He couldn't protest and he couldn't-

-and she screamed, shrill and sharp and-

And now Hinata was screaming in her sleep, drenched in sweat and when had that happened? He heard running footsteps and he quickly dived out of the window without thinking about it.

He ran through the garden, sprinting for his room, tears still streaming, head still throbbing, though less and less the further from Hinata he got. So this was the hand that Faith had dealt him. A victim. A slave. Helpless to fight and forced to succumb to others will. He could believe it.

Neji avoided Hinata like the plague from then on, for years, flinching every time he got too close to her. Hinata wasn't completely sure why. She wasn't good at sensing killing intent.


	45. Reservations

**Reservations**

In everyday life people have reservations. For example, a woman preparing dinner for her family will start out by only daintily using her fingers, making careful sure not to mess up her hair or clothes with flower or blood from the fresh meat or the guts from a raw fish in any way. And in the same way that people with everyday reservations slowly let go of them as time progressed and the situation degenerated to the point that neatness and appearance didn't matter anymore, that woman would slowly but steadily stop giving a damn as she got dirty. After all, no matter how hard she tried to stay clean some of the flower would get smudged across her forehead as she absentmindedly wiped it with the back of her hand, some blood from the meat would color her hair as she tucked a lock behind her hair without a second thought, some fish guts would find its way under her nails. After a while, when it didn't even matter anymore, when you were tense and tired and already dirty and you couldn't afford or want to expend the effort on staying nice and shiny, after some of that you just gave up. You threw up your hands, called it a day, and focused on doing a _good_ job instead of a _clean _job, hygiene be damned. After all, you could always shower and get a fresh change of clothes later.

That metaphor about the woman making food for her family worked very neatly in real life, Tenten thought. You started the mission, and you kept it all organized. And then you got ambushed, but you kept it up, cleanness not necessarily in the front of your mind, but your situation wasn't quite so dire that you'd bother staining your clothes and your hair and not give a damn.

But as you fought, as the opposition dealt you more and more blows, you gradually slipped into that mindset of not giving a fuck without even noticing it. You didn't care anymore. If you were going to fight then you might as well go all out.

And so, Tenten would absentmindedly wipe her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand, smudging it with dirt, and blood would color some of her strands crimson as she tucked the locks that had escaped her tight buns during the fast paced battle without a second thought, and some guts would find its way under her nails. The guts weren't that of a fishes.

The battle went on and reservations were cast aside, that prim and perfect front people put up for both others and themselves vanishing in the heat of battle.

Her heart beat fast in her chest. Blood rushed so quickly through her veins she could almost hear it, the clangs of metal on metal, the ominous meaty sounds of blunt objects hitting flesh, that neat, horrifying sound of something sharp and cold sliding through something soft and warm, all of that was the music and her blood and her heart was the background, adrenaline dulling the pain so that she could focus on the here and now instead of herself and her aches.

It was like seeing something cultured, something that had grown up in a society, a _civilized community, _being stripped of its art and its music and fancy knowledge and frills and clothes only to reveal the animal underneath, growling and foaming all along, a wolf in sheep's clothing. _Fight or flight. _In the end, these reservations were the only thing separating them from the rest of the animals. Human beings did not prosper due to knowledge, but due to their ability to act, to lie, and to pretend to be something they weren't.

It was, sort of, freeing, really. Not bad at all.

* * *

Sorry this isn't as long as usual. I normally try to make it a thousand words but this is barely seven hundred. Ah, well. I'm also sorry for only updating half as much as before. I just found this _awesome _web serial novel called Worm. It is amazing, and I heartily recommend it. The writing and plot is excellent and it about- wait a second I'm not a commercial. This is supposed to be about AHM, I apologize. On another note I'm really starting to like writing for Tenten. That is all. Prim the Amazing over and out!


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